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.A' v a&’ti 



































THE HINGES 
OF CUSTOM 


BY 

EDNAH AIKEN 



NEW YORK 

DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 

1923 


C CrjOu 'Y 















Copyright, 1923, 

By DODD, MEAD & COMPANY, Inc. 


PRINTED IN U. S. A. 



VAIL-BALLOU COMPANY 

BINGHAMTON AND NEW YORK 


TO H. L. 

We want to hear her voice; we know it will be golden; 
We trust her truth; we love her silent searching; 

Perhaps she has been speaking—ourselves that do not hear! 








CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAOE 

I The Pendulum.i 

II The Room of Roses.9 

III Husband and Wife.21 

IV The Land Where the Dead Dreams Go . 37 

V In Memoriam.44 

VI If I Had a Wife Like That.56 

VII A Club Dinner.65 

VIII On a Piccadilly ’Bus.83 

IX The Way Out.100 

X The British Museum Library .... 105 

XI Hertford House.115 

XII Lilac-Time in London.121 

XIII The Singing-Organ.129 

XIV Recognition ... 142 

XV A Cheque.150 

XVI A Formula for Genius.158 

XVII A Bull-dog.170 

XVIII Over-tones.176 

XIX Spring and Youth.191 

XX Come Down to Kew!.203 

XXI The Sense of Home!.209 

XXII On the River.214 

vii 











Vlll 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGB 

XXIII Jepson’s Dinner. 2 33 

XXIV The Holy Estate. 2 4 ° 

XXV Guesses.252 

XXVI Flight. 2 59 

XXVII On The Latch.270 

XXVIII Revelation.289 

XXIX Hard Labor.297 

XXX Is This What God Meant?.310 

XXXI The Uprooting.318 

XXXII A Farewell.325 

XXXIII Travellers of Hope. 34 ° 

XXXIV Through the Fog.350 

XXXV Cattle.356 

XXXVI The New World.362 

XXXVII Going On.371 

XXXVIII A Pledge.376 

















THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


CHAPTER I 


THE PENDULUM 


N ASTY stop, that! Sudden halt in the tube 
between stations, guards running forward, 
and then everything quiet. Everybody pre¬ 
tending to be interested in his paper; and not knowing 
if it’s a fire in the tube! That’s your British crowd; 
self-conscious; afraid to seem afraid. Sitting quite 
still, all of them, and everybody’s mind running ahead 
with the guards, to find what the deuce it’s all about— 
All London huddling towards its night-rest; seven 
millions of ’em going home, or getting ready for some¬ 
one who is going home. Crawling into tubes, or 
climbing into ’busses; swarming out of day-hives, 
swarming towards night-hives; each day the same out¬ 
pouring. A great pendulum, London, swaying her 
atoms back and forth, and back again. Queer, the 
force that keeps the discontented atoms in the pendu¬ 
lum, that keeps them from bursting out, need, hunger, 
habit, whatever it is! Sometimes they do burst out; 
there is something about those rebels in the papers each 
morning. 

Makes one a bit dizzy to think of it, sitting in the 
tube, with something happening out yonder; pretend- 

i 


2 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


ing to be reading the papers, bottled up in a hole in the 
earth; makes one a bit dizzy. Organization of day- 
hives and night-hives, each man in his place or on his 
way there, seven millions! Makes one wonder what 
disorganization would be like, the chaos of a great 
city like London, should the atoms all run wild. Like 
an anthill kicked by some careless boot—Jolly row 
that, if some cosmic boot were to kick London, cen¬ 
trifugal force gone balmy! 

An accident like this in the underground gives a man 
a suggestion of it; a taste of the menace of his own 
inventions! Stuck in an underground hole; all of us 
encouraging underground holes in order, if luck is with 
one, to save five minutes a day. Cars all piled 
up ahead, nobody knowing what the row is ! Go back, 
that’s all they can do, going back slowly so that the 
other trains coming along fast to save those precious 
five minutes may not lose all the time that’s coming to 
them this side of eternity. Going back slowly, and 
Alma getting frazzled because he’s going to be late 
for dinner ! 

No ’busses. Of course, no ’busses when the fog is 
like a rain, and there’s an accident in the subway. 
Hordes in the street, stepping on one’s feet; and no 
’busses! Everybody pushing, and then a jam of 
crowded ’busses refusing to stop. No extra ’busses, 
of course, no extra ’busses. That’s the trouble with 
seven millions; the pendulum’s too big. It can’t be 
ready for emergencies. 

Our own inventions trap us. Depend on electricity 
to get you home at the exact moment, timing yourself 
so that the dinner will be on the table, and no chance 


THE PENDULUM 


3 

for talk to spoil your appetite, if you have an appetite, 
and there you are, miles from home, and the ’busses 
not stopping! Or a storm takes the telephone wires 
down, and Fleet Street is in a panic. Not enough 
messengers to go round; not enough messengers if the 
pendulum’s been depending on electricity. Miles from 
home, and not enough money in your pockets to hire 
a hansom even if you dared to. Never enough money 
in those pockets to hire a hansom. 

Alma would think he was crazy. It were better to 
be late. He could see the way her lips would shut. 
Which was worse, the bitter self-repression, or the 
floodtide when at last released? It was bad when it 
came, the floodtide, but at least the suspense was 
past. It was over, then, for a time. If he had 
the money, he’d dare it; he’d take a hansom. Just 
to shake his pendulum. A man isn’t a machine! 
There’s a horse down. Poor beggar. Swung out 
of the pendulum, he has! Leg’s broken. Has to be 
shot. 

Standing on the street corner swearing at the ’busses 
that won’t stop to take you home, and dreading to get 
home. Wondering if they are all like that, if that’s 
all that home means to the man in the crowd, just a 
bad dinner and a bed? Only one of the seven 
millions; waiting on the street corner in the fog that’s 
like a rain. Part of the machinery of the city, going 
back to get oiled for the next day’s whirring. That’s 
all it amounts to. Getting up, and going to work, to 
make the tenth part of a shoe, or the fourth part of 
a box, or keeping books about wool and goat’s hair 
that you never see or get the feel of; invoice as close 


4 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 

as a man ever gets to wool and goat’s hair in Fetter 
Lane! 

That’s where the Cape beats London, the Cape be¬ 
fore things happened. The days in the saddle on the 
Karroo; the long, silent nights! Was it the same 
Wade Graeme? Life all ahead of him then; life to 
his shaping. Life all back of him now. Waiting on 
the corner for a ’bus to stop that he might get home. 
Home! Gas sputtering in the hall; smell of the dinner 
greeting you; a burned smell, and somebody angry 
with you. That’s home. 

At last, a ’bus stopping. 

Hanging to the step rail, struggling for a foothold 
when at last you’ve pushed your way up; pushing and 
being pushed for a place by sharp featured women. 
What has happened to the world that all women now 
look like that, angry and pushing? Swarming, is it 
that does it, over-swarming? The struggling for a 
place in the pendulum-sweep, day-hive and night-hive? 
Hating it, the struggle and the hanging-on; never 
getting any fun out of it, and yet fighting for it, this 
thing we call life, perhaps because it isn’t living! 

Unreal, it all seemed. Always with him, that 
haunting sense of unreality. This deadening routine 
had no relation to him, to the real Wade Graeme, the 
boy of Surrey, the son of Wade House, or to that 
lonely youth who used to ride over the long, silent 
stretches of the Karroo. The procession of days 
winding ahead of him, of days just like this, wet nights 
like this; always on the way home to get oiled up for 
the morrow, or on the way back after being oiled up; 
nothing else ahead of him, so why shouldn’t it begin to 


THE PENDULUM 


5 


feel natural? Yet never could he rid himself of that 
sensation of unreality. As though he were masking 
through some pantomime or dream, which would break 
into fact, and the real Wade Graeme be at last re¬ 
vealed. 

This the real Wade Graeme, who belonged to the 
woman in the red jersey, with the list to her walk, her 
hair done up in a tight knot, and her lips pressed to¬ 
gether; the same whom that high-bred, silver-voiced 
lady used to call with accenting pride: My son. Her 
son had never planned this. Something quite differ¬ 
ent he’d planned! 

A small place in the country, Surrey, perhaps. 
Decent, but probably small. No matter how small it 
was, so that it was decent. He’d expected to be poor 
for awhile, until the publishers would take notice of 
him, and pass his name along. A room all lined with 
books, with soft, shaded lights, and with him the sort 
of woman he understood sitting on the other side of 
the fireplace, reading, or listening to him while he read. 
Liking to do the sort of things he liked to do, his kind 
liked to do,—and draping the daily task with the 
graciousness of beauty and self control. Her lips not 
pressed tight together, and opening only over terrible, 
clipping words! Tennis on Saturday afternoons, and 
then tea with little biscuits and some sticky sweets. 
At his desk in the mornings, a desk by a window over¬ 
looking the downs; spinning out his dreams; writing 
the Thing as he saw it; writing about life—God! 
Was this the life he would have written of, the life he 
was living, he the man that that boy had become? 

A machine, that’s all he was, a hopeless machine, 


6 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


swinging from the office to Bird Place, and back to the 
office again. Bird Place, instead of Surrey, where the 
gas jet sputters and sighs in the hall; threadbare 
carpet on the stairs because he wasn’t man enough 
to be able to put a decent one there; yellow painted 
woodwork, peeling in spots. The room one lived in 
calling a living-room, because a man’s soul had died 
in it. No books. No books in Bird Place. Alma 
said they couldn’t afford books; and Alma knew. She 
kept the accounts. 

It shamed him, how illy he provided for them, for 
Alma, and the piteous little undeveloped girl! The 
dining-room still bleaker, dark and chilly unless the 
door into the kitchen let in the smells with the heat. 
And the worse for those terrible pictures she’d brought 
with her from the Cape, overglossed dishes of over- 
coloured fruit. The jaundiced walls would be better 
without them, but she clung to every memory of Cape¬ 
town. Their table cheerless and accusing:— One 
can’t have a cheerful table unless one earns enough to 
give one’s wife, and if one earns enough, one wouldn’t 
be caught living in Bird Place, and there you are, the 
real Wade Graeme! 

At last a seat in the ’bus! That’s the reason peo¬ 
ple are willing to go on, getting tired enough to 
enjoy the mere sitting still! Oh, of course! A 
woman with a baby in her arms must get on and stand 
on the platform, looking straight at you! You can’t 
keep your eyes shut and pretend you don’t know she’s 
there. You can’t, because once long ago you were the 
Wade Graeme she used to call “My son.” 

Out to the platform, swaying again, swaying into 


THE PENDULUM 


7 


drowsiness. The longer one works, the more one 
sleeps; and less time for thinking, less time for self-re¬ 
proaches. Men can live because they can sleep 
through half their life! 

At last, Hoxton. Have to stay awake now, Wade 
Graeme, for soon it will be Hoxton Square, and a man 
must look lively for Haberdasher Street, or he’ll be 
carried past the quick corner; and that means a walk 
back to Haberdasher Street, and Bird Place. 

This Haberdasher Street? Might be anywhere, 
for all the outlines he could see. Had to trust to 
instinct to know which way to dive! Full right, into 
a sea of fog. 

Head down, counting his steps to be sure when he 
reaches his house, two hundred and eighty steps from 
Haberdasher. He could not see, for all his straining, 
the brickfaced houses squaring the motheaten group 
of shrubbery which no one but the babies in peram¬ 
bulators, or their flirting nurses, ever took seriously. 
Couldn’t even see the doorsteps, a hundred and sixty 
houses, veiled by the fog, as alike, alike as sheep. 
Feeling his way, and counting, sixty, sixty-eight, eighty, 
ninety, a hundred. A little extra speed towards the 
end, because of the fog in his face; and at last there, 
one seven-millionth of London at his own door. 

Something was wrong with his key. His fingers 
perhaps slippery from the fog. Put it upside down, 
perhaps. Some one calling to him: 

“The door is on the latch!” 

Suddenly music and poetry and warmth! 

He took the key from the door. 

If it had been you coming home, one of the seven 


8 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


millions; if for eight years you had been fighting your 
way home through sleet and rains, in tubes and in 
’busses; dozing in the tube, or swaying from a ’bus-rail; 
if you had been groping your way through the fog, 
counting your steps to lead you straight; if it had been 
you, the man you did not intend to be, and your key 
did not fit, and a voice had called to you, a voice that 
sounded like Surrey, that sounded like the voices which 
used to call to you: “The door is on the latch!” 
would you have wakened at once from the fog you 
were in, known at once that you had miscounted, that 
it was not your house, that that voice had nothing to 
do with you, for what could voices with poetry and 
music and warmth have to do with a failure like you? 
Would you have known at once that the pendulum was 
sweeping you too far? “Back at once, atom of the 
pendulum, you are in another man’s house! Back to 
Elaberdasher Street, and start counting over again!” 
With the door on the latch? 

Music, and poetry, and warmth. 

Graeme pushed in the door. 


CHAPTER II 


THE ROOM OF ROSES 

N OT quite awake yet; eyes blinking from the 
fog and the shock or light; the two Wade 
Graemes claiming reality. His hall; and yet 
not his hall. Some one had been doing jolly things 
to it. What had she done with that old cracked 
globe? Had she made that silk shade, Alma? 
Growing plants on the table. Like Surrey. The car¬ 
pet wasn’t threadbare—it wasn’t his hall! He’d got 
into the wrong house. Felt like home to the other 
Wade Graeme. Going to get kicked out for a bur¬ 
glar? He heard something fall. 

He turned to go back, when the door behind him 
opened. Wheeling, he had a vision of a glow. Like 
spring coming through the open door! Roses be¬ 
yond, roses and shaded lights framing her face. It 
wasn’t angry with him, or afraid. Angelic pity in the 
eyes staring at him. He wasn’t going to get kicked 
out. The light from the fire beyond made her hair 
into a halo. He couldn’t be on Bird Place. He was 
still dozing in the tube. 

“Why, you’re frozen!” 

Like a benediction, her sympathy. Thought he 

was an outcast? Well, wasn’t he? Outcast from all 

this, the comfort, the warmth and roses. 

9 


IO 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


Dazed, drunkenly, he followed her into a wonder¬ 
ful room, soft and shaded and perfumed. His house. 
That is, the same sort of house; windows in the same 
place, doors in the same place, but jolly things done 
to them! Rose-covered walls, rose-chintzed chairs 
and cushions, a miracle in Bird Place! Grate on the 
same side, but glorified with white enamel; a fire 
glowing, not grumbling; cheer and warmth. No one 
angry with him. 

.“Warm yourself.” 

He spread his fingers to the blaze, getting as he 
turned, a picture of that side of the room. Pictures 
on the mantel, shaded candlesticks. In the corner, a 
couch, with tousled cushions, where she had been lying 
down when he startled her. Her book was lying face 
downwards on the floor. It was that he’d heard 
fall— 

He would tell her how it had happened. But her 
look, of swift surprise, as of recognition, halted him. 
He wasn’t the pigeon she thought him. 

“I was lost. I was frozen!” Then he called him¬ 
self an idiot for answering a thought that she had not 
voiced. 

“I thought at first, you know, that you were my hus¬ 
band. I was deep in my book. I forget where I am 
when I’m reading. Then when you did not come in, 
it startled me.” 

“A burglar,—a tramp, and now what?” 

Curious to be talking to her like this; to be enjoying 
himself. Like the old Wade Graeme. 

“Another one of us; players; masquerading in Bird 
Place. I’ve often seen you passing.” 


THE ROOM OF ROSES 


11 

Not even in Surrey had he heard such a voice. 
Tender, caressive, making music of the words! 

“I always knew it would happen, sometime in a fog 
like this. The houses all alike, the steps going up the 
same way!” 

She, too, had always known it would happen! 

“I counted the steps from Haberdasher Street—” 
he wanted to tell her. 

Such a delicious little smile she gave him! “All of 
us have to count the steps, or the houses, in a night 
like this!” 

“I’m sorry! I’ve been counting them for eight 
years to keep from making a mistake like this.” Silly 
British phrase, that. Fm sorry. To be here? 

“Isn’t it terrible, how we do it? How we live? 
That we can build one hundred and sixty of them, did 
you know it? Have you counted them? And not a 
window different? Stairs in the same place. Doors 
in the same place. One hundred and sixty families 
living the same way. Eating in the same dark room; 
going up the same narrow stairs to bed; getting up 
facing the same square, one hundred and sixty fam¬ 
ilies of us. Original, aren’t we?” 

He grabbed at the respite she was allowing him. 
A man can’t go while she is talking to him, can he? 
Even if he has stumbled by mistake into her house. 
He has to answer, doesn’t he? Gives him a chance 
to look around the room to see what they could do 
to their house, if Alma were willing. Alma said it 
took money to make over a room, but if these people 
had money they wouldn’t be living in Bird Place! 

“I, too, have often thought of it,” he replied. 


12 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


“Every day, in fact.” He was noticing the books, 
shelves of books, books on the table. “The hives of 
homes; lives going on inside the same way. And bye 
and bye a funeral; coffin going down the steps,—just 
an accident if it’s at one-forty, or at one-forty-eight! 
Soon another at one-forty-eight, and going down the 
same way!” 

Strangers, they stared at each other, forgetting they 
were strangers, in their shocked understanding of 
Bird Place. 

She spoke again, her eyes wistful, as though tears 
were just behind them. “It makes life—terrible! It 
shouldn’t be that way. I suppose it can’t be helped 
when we will crowd so!” 

How pretty she looked there among her roses! 
Sorrow in her eyes; sorrow for them all. Some of 
that sorrow for him. 

“It’s bound to get worse.” His voice answered. 
“In the big centres like London. It’s a machine. It 
crushes all the poetry out of life—” 

“Oh no,” she cried. “Not if it’s not dead in you!” 
He had thought her eyes were grey. Black they 
looked that instant when they flashed. “There will 
always be poetry in things, to the poet. Hasn’t Kip¬ 
ling proved that? Think of the ‘Miracles’! We 
think that everything’s prosaic, or that it’s all been 
said, and then the real poet comes along, and shows 
us the poetry which is lying all about us. A railroad 
track, a telegraph wire is inspiration to the poet. 
Queer, I was thinking of that when your step came on 
the stairs. I was reading a poem that made me think 


THE ROOM OF ROSES 


13 

of it.” She moved to retrieve the fallen book, but 
he jumped to get it for her. 

Poetry. Long since he’d held a book of poetry in 
his hands. Hands that added figures of wool and 
goat’s hair all day long in Fetter Lane! 

“It’ s new, rather. There’s one that’s wonderful to 
me. He has put us all into it, the crowds, the mass 
of us. Have you read him? He’s fairly grabbed 
London! He makes it throb, beat in rhythm, the 
crowds, the city streets, the loneliness. It’s rough and 
vulgar, somewhat, but it is real poetry, with the heart 
in it.” 

He wished that she would not pause. When she 
stopped speaking, he must go. Wasn’t decent to stay 
unless she kept on talking. He hadn’t heard all she 
had said, for he was thinking of the voice itself; he 
could listen to that straying, lilting voice for ever. 
Thinking of the voice rather than of the words it was 
caressing. In a minute this would be ended. Then 
he would find himself on the outside of that door 
again. 

He had placed the book on the table, but he picked 
it up again. A foolish notion, to gain a minute in 
that room. If he might write down the name? He 
wanted to read it, the poem she had spoken of, the one 
that proved there was poetry in London. 

“It will never be quite the same to you, after, Lon¬ 
don won’t.” Was it fancy that the voice was a little 
more reserved as though she knew he was stretching 
his privilege? As though she wished to suggest to him 
that he must realize this was an unusual incident, his 


14 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


falling in upon her like a piece of machinery gone 
wrong, a bolt shot loose. That she did not talk to 
strangers this way. But a neighbour, one who had 
lived eight years in Bird Place! She did not say it. 
It was in her voice, in the eyes that watched him as he 
jotted down the name of the poet in his notebook, 
among other notes, of wool and goat’s hair! 

Then a silence. Which told him he should be off, 
and at once; that he had stayed already too long. 
He couldn’t pretend to want to warm his fingers, now 
that she knew his own house was a few steps from here. 
One assumes that people have fires in their grates 
on nights like this. He stole another look at her 
bower as he put the notebook back in his pocket. 

Still silence; which told him he must go. 

“It was good of you, to understand. I’ll be even 
more careful counting, after this. Two hundred and 
eighty, that’s mine.’' He was dragging out this won¬ 
derful adventure. 

“We’re two hundred and sixty.” 

One more look around the pretty room before he 
left. He wanted to carry it away with him, her 
setting, the couch with the crushed cushions, the chintz 
covered chairs, the work basket with the silks out- 
tumbling, and the books. Alma said it took money to 
turn a house into a home. Yet this was a home; in 
Bird Place. 

He took a step or two towards the door. “I 
didn’t know that there could be a room like this in 
Bird Place.” 

He saw the flush of a pride that was creative spread 
over her face. “It used to be terrible. Was yours 


THE ROOM OF ROSES 


i5 

like that? Fearful woodwork, yellow grained wood¬ 
work, and paper that made your soul creep.” 

“Jaundiced paper!” Was it that way? No need 
of telling her that it was that way still; that it made 
his soul creep every evening when he sat there alone, 
Alma in the kitchen, or upstairs with the child. Not 
necessary to tell her that there was not a snug corner 
in his house where a man wants to stay, to settle down. 
Always restless in his house; no comfortable chairs; 
no good lights, no warmth. 

“Oh, I know,” she was saying. “I scraped it all 
off! Scraped my fingers, too! They said it wouldn’t 
>show, staying on the walls, but I couldn’t bear to think 
of it being underneath, even, under my roses! I’d 
found this paper, and a man came who was willing to 
work for his meals, and I helped him, and then I 
found this chintz,—” Full stop. Reserve covering 
the glow, like ashes smothering the flame. She had 
forgotten he was a stranger in that instant of swift 
sympathy. He moved reluctantly towards the door. 

His back was towards her. How did he know that 
her hand went out to recall him? How did he know 
that he should not go, that it was already too late? 
Too late for what? She had not spoken. But it 
came to him; before looking at her, it came to him. 

His eyes demanded the reason for her visible dis¬ 
tress. It was that of a child, as though she had been 
caught pilfering sweets. Little more than a child, 
after all. Pity had lent her for the moment a decep¬ 
tive, maternal look. What was it she was fearing? 

He heard a step on the stairs, outside, and then a 
key moving in the lock. 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


16 

“The door is unlocked, it's on the latch,'' she called, 
but tremulously. And then to him, she added: “My 
husband.” 

Jaundiced paper under those roses! Her childish 
panic, her blanching cheeks, her widening eyes, ar¬ 
mored him. If she would tell him what she wished 
him to do, he would do it, but then he heard the outer 
door opening. No time to say anything. He couldn’t 
get out the back way without being heard? He knew T 
the way out of that house. No time! 

He mustn't think that there was anything wrong, but 
her husband w r ould not understand her talking to a 
stranger like this, letting him into the house. And 
she liked to have him like things. It kept things 
pleasant, his liking things. He could not get out 
without being heard, or seen, and that would be worse, 
getting caught, and having to explain, than staying, 
and trying to make it seem right? 

His thoughts rioting, foolishly? or hers? Not a 
word spoken; her mind fluttering all those fears to 
him. A child, and perhaps all those fears unfounded. 
But she could trust him. He'd fix it up. It was all 
his fault— 

The door opened, and the husband walked in. 

He was a middle-aged, well-kept Britisher. Cheeks 
a little heavy; eyes over-pale; scrupulously groomed, 
over-groomed. Even to the swift glance, the groom¬ 
ing was overdone. It was veneer; plenty of veneer. 
He knew that type, and despised it. Understood now 
why this soft, tender child was afraid. Smug brute; 
ironically polite, and hard to deal with. Why didn’t 
he say something? Wasn’t his place to speak first. 



THE ROOM OF ROSES 


i7 


But he wasn't going to let her be sorry that she 
wanted the man she thought a beggar to get warm. 
The heart and courage of her, asking a tramp into her 
house that he might warm his fingers! His mind 
working fast, hunting for an excuse for being found 
in that house. With her book in his hand. As 
though a friendly call. He’d forgotten her book. 
That was his cue. Her book. 

“Who is this, Isabel?” 

She looked at him helplessly; why, she didn’t even 
know his name! 

“I hope that you will persuade your wife that she 
wants to buy this book, sir.” Wasn’t worried now 
since he’d decided to be a book agent! He wouldn’t 
look again at her. “It’s a new poet; Noyes? He’s 
making quite a stir. Maybe you’ve heard of him? 
It’s neatly put up, and just three shillings, sixpence. 
It’s a book that ought to be in every gentleman's 
house.” 

“It’s a wonder that you need any persuasion, 
Isabel!” Smug, bland voice; a fat, superior voice. 
“I fancy I got home just in time, or it would have be¬ 
longed in my house.” Fat innuendo under a smug 
pleasantry. “Do you always bring book-agents into 
the house?” 

Graeme hastened to interpose. 

“It was cold outside for the lady.” 

“I’m not buying books. We have too many al¬ 
ready.” 

“It’s my last visit tonight. I’ll let you have it for 
three shillings.” 

“I don’t want it,” 


18 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


“Two shillings.” Was this Wade Graeme, dreamer 
of Surrey, and of the Cape, or the machine of Fetter 
Lane? Enjoying himself! Wishing he might steal 
a glance at her face. This was adventure. He felt 
prankish; more like a boy than in ten long years. 

“I don’t want it as a gift. I don’t want agents 
coming to this house. This way.” 

The broad shoulders of the husband were between 

» 

Graeme and the haloed face he wanted once more to 
see. She turned, though, towards the fire. Her 
shoulders, he could see, were quivering. Laughter or 
tears? Laughter, of course, now that it was all over, 
the danger, the scene she had feared. Going off with 
her book in his hand? A book agent! Of course, 
laughing. 

“Remember the number. 584. Remember that 
we do not buy books here.” The voice was smooth, 
covered. “Remember the number and don’t come 
back to it.” 

The door slammed behind him. Bland brute. 
Bland British brute! 

Graeme stood staring at the door. 

Her book still in his hand. Rotten trick, to be 
carrying off her book. What else could he have done, 
once he’d dropped into that fool masquerade? Alma 
would see it, and would twit him with extravagance. 
Alma! And the dinner spoiling! He’d forgotten 
Alma. 

How long had he been in there ? How long staring 
at that shut door? He didn’t want to look at his 
watch, but he had to know the worst, had to know be¬ 
fore he went home, in order to know what to say. 


THE ROOM OF ROSES 


i9 


Where was all his prankishness gone? Not seven 
o’clock yet? All that happened in a few minutes? 
Life seemed to have changed its colour since he pushed 
in that door. 

Back to Haberdasher Street, and starting right this 
time; starting from the corner, and then on, two hun¬ 
dred and eighty steps. No mistakes now; not dream¬ 
ing; wide awake, never more wide awake. 

All the shades down at five hundred and eighty-four. 
Looked like all the rest from here; roses and shaded 
lights all shut in. He thought he saw a chink of rosy 
light. There, it went out. Going in to their dinner, 
he supposed. Have to economize and turn off the 
gas when you go into dinner, if you’re so poor that you 
have to live at Bird Place! Rummy setting for that 
tender child, Bird Place! 

Queer thing to have happened to him, to the dull 
machine, Graeme. Jerked him out of his rut. Two 
hundred and eighty. Wonder if Alma would detect 
the excitement in his face? She always used to know 
when he had seen his mother, before all that had 
ended, too. She knew when he had seen any of the 
old friends, whom he never saw now. He couldn’t 
keep up with them; and it made it unpleasant at home. 
Though she didn’t like him, she didn’t want others to 
like him. Queer beings women are, some women are! 

His key fitting; his own door this time. But not so 
grey, somehow, not so hopeless, as it was an hour ago. 
Those few minutes in that room of roses, and every¬ 
thing seemed different. Buoyant! Queer, that he, 
Graeme, coming home, could feel buoyant! But it 
would not be that way long. She had a way of keep- 


20 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


ing things the same; a dead level of sameness; keeps 
you where you belong, as though she had clapped a 
weight on you. 

The gas jet spitting under the cracked globe, 
garishly revealing the stark outlines of the sordid hall. 
A pervading smell of pot roast, scorched pot roast, 
and greasy vegetables. His house all right. 

“What are you leaving the door open for? There’s 
a draught!” 

The voice of his wife; coming from the kitchen. 

As a well-drilled subaltern, Graeme shut the door. 


CHAPTER III 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 

A THIN veil of fog crept with him into the hall. 
No mistake this time. His home; no roses 
here, grey and discouraging. 

He slipped the book of poems into his pocket. 
How in Hades was he going to get it back to her, to 
Isabel ? 

Could she see that hall, she would know what he 
was, a failure. It was what Alma told him every day. 
Told him in words; told him by her grim silences; told 
it by that angry stare of hers when he left his plate un¬ 
touched. A long time ago he’d stopped asking her 
what was the matter with the butcher! They had to 
have poor meat, the cheap cuts, because the husband, 
not the butcher, was the failure! 

He wondered, often, if it could really grate on her 
as much, the coarse meals, the worn carpets, the' 
broken globes; on Krieger’s daughter? Saying the 
name recalled his image, the rough beard and nicotine 
stained teeth, stained nails, his carpet slippers, the 
carpet slippers which pattered interminably about the 
house over which he was king. Such screaming car¬ 
pets in that Cape home; bric-a-brac that made one’s 
nerves ache! Could this desperately offend her, 

Krieger’s daughter? Having seen one or two other 

21 


22 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


homes, Wade House, the Knights’, could it mean as 
much to her, the lack of beauty, as though she had 
grown up with it? 

There was no fire in the chilly, dark sitting-room. 
Of course, no fire in the sitting-room! 

His wife found him standing by the empty grate, 
looking down into it. “With your hat on!” she ex¬ 
claimed. “And the dinner—waiting an hour already! 
It's all spoiled. I suppose you had dinner downtown 
with some of your grand friends!” 

He told her about the accident. He did not yet 
know what had happened, but “there they were, 
caught in the tube, with cars all piled up ahead of them. 
They had to go back." 

He had had a similar story to tell several times be¬ 
fore in those dazed eight years, but this time it 
sounded false to his own ears, too. Because of those 
few minutes in that room two houses away; because 
of that queer relationship of sympathy between him¬ 
self and the girl with the haloing hair. 

“And the 'busses all crowded; not stopping. And 
not enough money for a hansom.” 

“A hansom!" 

“I said I didn't have enough money for a hansom. 
Better than letting the dinner get spoiled, and keep¬ 
ing you in the kitchen, Alma.” 

“As though you care where I keep! And you don’t 
seem to be in a hurry to keep it from spoiling now! 
As I can see. Ten minutes in the tube. Ten waiting 
for a ’bus. It don't make the time you’ve been on the 
way!” argued Alma. 

Though he was still staring into the grate, he knew 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 


23 


she was looking at him; that her lips were drawn as 
tight as the knot of hair at the top of her head; that 
she was standing, listing; both hands on her hips, the 
Capetown way. Her red jersey on. That, of course, 
was his fault, her having to wear the old red jersey. 
The old, sick feeling overcame him; like physical 
nausea, the loathing of his life. Thought he’d con¬ 
quered that weakness long ago. Girlish, that sort of 
giddiness, Wade Graeme! 

“Well, if you don’t want any dinner at all!’’ 

He followed her into the dining-room. A little 
warmer there because the kitchen door had been left 
open to let the heat in. The cloth was mussed and 
askew, clean enough, but crushed; it looked like a 
servants’ table. A cheap cloth, the rotten sort, the 
kind failures have to have. The roast was already 
on the table, spoiled. His fault. A veil of grease 
was settling over the gravy, and the same dishearten¬ 
ing glaze covered the vegetables which had been 
cooked with the meat. A man had to be a good 
soldier or a wolf to stomach it. Mothers ought not 
to teach their sons to be fastidious or dainty if this 
sort of thing is ahead of them! 

He took the seat opposite his wife. Ten years he 
had been doing it, sitting opposite Alma. Ten years 
of dinners like this, eight in London, at Bird Place, 
and two at the Cape. How many might he reason¬ 
ably expect to have to live through? Twenty? 
Thirty? Forty? All like this? Nothing to soften 
it, to soften her? The Graemes were a sturdy peo¬ 
ple,—and the Kriegers! 

He watched her as a stranger would while she 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


24 

carved. She always carved. She did not hack the 
roast as he did. She could make it do for two or 
three days. He wished she didn’t. If there were 
anything he hated, it was warmed over meats. 
Cooked to death the first night, like leather the second. 
Nice thing, knowing it is ahead of you, three nights 
running, burned beef! 

Wondering again why she had ever married him! 
Had she ever really liked him? For a long time now 
he had been doubting it. That first week when he’d 
taken her to Johannesberg for her wedding trip, he 
had been mystified by her tears. Excitement, he’d de¬ 
cided, leaving home, girlishness. 

Leaving old Krieger! Was it reasonable to believe 
that she had ever wasted any tears on old Krieger? 
He didn’t know much about women, except his 
mother’s kind. How could he know anything about 
Alma? It wasn’t long before it had dawned on him 
that it was himself she was shrinking away from in 
tears, not life, but himself. And soon the doctor was 
telling him that it was not abnormal, for women in 
her condition. 

It didn’t stop when the baby came. It grew worse. 
By that time, he knew that she hated him. Then why, 
he still asked himself, why had she ever married him? 
He had never thought of her, in that way, the wife, 
sweetheart way, not even when she had planned that 
trip up Table Mountain. She had seemed old to him; 
and different, foreign. The Cape girls were different. 
Not like the English girls, the girls of Surrey. And 
Alma was still more unlike, a Krieger, unlovely. 

Why the day he went on that excursion, wasn’t he 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 


25 


carrying in his pocket as a sort of holy secret a picture 
of Janice, the girl he’d kissed good-bye back of the 
hedge in the Surrey garden? 

No pledges, they’d had no time for pledges. Her 
mother’s voice came on the other side of the hedge. 
Well guarded was Janice by that careful mother of 
hers! He’d nothing to offer her. He’d had to make 
his letters frightfully circumspect, hoping she’d read 
between the lines, but dreaming of her, of going home 
to her all those long days and nights on the Karroo! 
He had never once thought of Alma in that wonderful, 
cosy, creepy way! 

Hadn’t Alma assured him they were going to meet 
their friends on top of the mountain, to eat lunch with 
them, and then all come down together ? And no 
friends to be found, search and call as they would. 
Darkness finding them still searching—at least he had 
thought then that they were searching! Had taken 
them all night to get back, and found old Krieger’s 
door locked against them. Then Alma had cried, and 
he had tried to comfort her. Excited him, his role of 
comforter; he could realize now how dramatic and 
important he had felt taking her part against old 
Krieger, against the world. How could he be ex¬ 
pected to know anything about woman’s ways, as 
mysterious to a boy of his age as that God-forsaken 
country of theirs! 

In his arms, she had sobbed that she cared for him. 
He knew now that she had lied. She had never cared 
for him. She only wanted to get away from old 
Krieger, from his oaths, and his coarse anger. Queer, 
when she got what she wanted, why she couldn’t be a 


26 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


little gentle with him! Women are queer beings; that 
kind of women. 

Two sorts; one like his mother and the girl down 
the street, the kind who make life soft and gentle 
and fragrant: and the kind who shove you in the tubes, 
in the ’busses, those of the hard faces, like Alma's. 

He looked at the empty place: the highchair still 
there: some fresh spots, grease spots; scattered crumbs 
and a drained milk glass. 

“Where is little Alma?” 

“Do you think I could keep her up so late?” 

And they fell to the work in front of them. For 
what is there to talk about? The one decent thing 
about a meal is that it is an excuse for not talking. 

Talking isn't decent: it doesn't show you where you 
are going. It gets you into tight places; into comers 
you don't see quickly enough. And then you know 
what a rotter you are, how wretched you have made 
your wife; how hard she has to work, harder than 
any other woman on the square; all of it, that you 
know already by heart, over and over again. 

At last it was over, the feeding and the being fed. 

One couldn’t call it dining. That implies a social 
hour. Feeding the engine, that's what eating is at 
Bird Place. Enough life stored up to last over the 
night, and then another sullen meal to carry you down 
to the office where you can earn just enough money 
to buy some more meals like this. God! And men 
go on living! 

Reaching for his napkin, his fingers touched a hard 
pocket. Her book. He had forgotten for an instant 
of rebellion his wonderful adventure. 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 


27 


U I think I’ll read the paper for awhile.” 

“It’s nice to have time to read the papers,” com¬ 
mented Alma. 

His anticipations were dashed. “You read a bit, 
Alma, and I’ll clear the dishes off. I’d like to.” He 
meant it. He’d enjoy his paper more, after. 

“This is my part. Earning it is your part.” She 
fell to the task of clearing off the table. 

Again she reminded him that he was a failure. 
Never a time when she did not rub salt on the open 
wound. Maybe, she did not know that it was a 
wound. Because he was silent, didn’t moan over 
things, did she think he didn’t care, that he was cal¬ 
lous, as well as lazy? For you can’t explain things to 
Alma. It always makes them worse. You’ve just 
got to go on. 

He turned up the gas in the dingy chandelier; in that 
room whose contour was like the room of roses. The 
gas would not go high. Alma had had a regulator 
put on. Made it hard to read. Made your eyes burn 
the next day. 

Not the book yet. Not while Alma might be 
coming in. The newspaper, first, or at least, he would 
seem to be reading the paper. Before it had a chance 
to fade he wanted to go over that curious adventure; 
from the minute of putting his key in the lock, when 
she had called to him. 

What had impelled him, daze or destiny, to obey 
that voice? What had pulled him into a house that 
he knew was not his ? No use trying to deny that fact; 
dazed as he was, he had known it was not his house. 
Could analyze the result of his acquiescence, but not 


28 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


the act itself. Five minutes before, had he been asked 
in the tube, say, what he would do under such circum¬ 
stances, he would have answered glibly, why the only 
answer possible for a commonplace machineman who 
has no appetite for adventure! 

A man does not have to enter a strange house be¬ 
cause a voice from inside explains that the door is on 
the latch. Not a sober, self-respecting Englishman. 
The experience safely his, he knew that he would do the 
same thing over again; would do it better, with more 
finesse, would carry away the satisfaction of having 
met the situation. Though, after all, it hadn’t been 
so blunderingly done, in spite of his daze;—odd, how 
the book agent notion had jumped into his head! 

The door is on the latch! 

Nothing in his commonplace conservative experience 
could explain why the machinery of his life had then 
failed him. Intriguing, it was to his imagination. 
Gave a deeper significance to all that came after— 

Even queerer than obeying her call, was his under¬ 
standing her unspoken thoughts. Her fears had 
reached him; he had answered her, and not a 
word spoken! Sounds rummy, put into words, 
but it was true. No time to say anything, once 
that man’s key had scraped in the lock. No 
mistake, he hadn’t misread her fear, either. 
Nice mess that would have been! Suppose he had 
thought she was frightened, and had plunged into the 
masquerade on a wrong cue? He would have been 
kicked out then for impertinence, all right. But it was 
not a mistake. She had been frightened. Wished 
he could have seen her face once more before being 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 


29 


pushed out by that bland brute; wished he could have 
been sure if there were tears in those eyes, the eyes 
that looked like deep moonlit pools, or if it had been 
laughter, relieved laughter. Pretty figure he’d cut, 
walking off like a whipped cur, with his stolen bone! 
Her book in his hand. A book agent! 

Sometime later, he would have time for this specula¬ 
tion, what twist of fate it was that had given a girl of 
thrill and flame into the care of that smug English¬ 
man. But not tonight. He would not put anything 
tonight between himself and the sharp memory of that 
astonishing incident. He wanted to make the picture 
his. Wanted to muse over the queer mental sympa¬ 
thy, the quick call and response which the husband had 
not sensed or deflected. He felt a glow warm his 
breast. Not since he had kissed Janice in the Surrey 
garden had he felt so alive, so pulsingly youthful. 
His blood ran glowing from breast to brow. 

Never again would Bird Place be hopelessly prosaic; 
life even there had the flavour of adventure, of prog¬ 
ress. Because of that vitalizing sympathy. Under¬ 
standing, that is the thing that lifts men above the 
brute. Not just drinking and eating in order to live; 
not just sleeping that one may be fit to earn enough to 
eat again! Poetry— “If you’ve any of it in you!” 
He used to think he had it in him. 

Just as though he had been starving, and had been 
given food! 

Only one house in between her house and his, be¬ 
tween this, and that room of roses! He wished it 
were the next house. It swept over him like a pater¬ 
nal wistfulness the wish that her house were next, near 



30 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


enough to hear her call; their walls touching, as good 
friends, cool cheek to cheek. 

A house in between, don’t be forgetting that, 
Wade Graeme, husband and father. No sheltering 
friendships from you. That’s all ended. You’re 
finished. Other men may have friendships, or the 
other kind, even. Some men manage to attain a free, 
individual life, but it’s not for you. Your minutes, 
like your shillings, must all be accounted for. “Ten 
minutes late, and where have you been all that time?” 
And: “How do I know that your salary hasn’t been 
raised this year?” 

That is what marriage means to some people; be¬ 
longing, accounting. Slavery. Why isn’t one told, 
prepared for that sort of life, if it’s always possible, 
and if there’s no way of getting out, once one has fal¬ 
len in? Other mistakes one has a chance to retrieve, 
one’s business, one’s partner, but if one makes this sort 
of blunder, it’s the business of the state to see that one 
keeps on making it, fulfills the consequences of that 
mistake. Then why aren’t young people warned that 
it can be slavery, told of the laws which protect a bad 
bargain even if it bind one into slavery? 

It wasn’t as though he had persisted in making a 
hot-blooded, hot-headed marriage, against the will of 
his people. A girl had cried, afraid of a passionate 
father, and to save her the consequences of a walk she 
had planned, he had bound himself for life, not know¬ 
ing anything about the slavery business, not knowing 
free men could be slaves unless they didn’t mind a row 
every hour or so. He had thrown his life away for 
some one who didn’t care for it, and England says he 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 


3 1 


was old enough to know better, and so he must stand 
by his bargain, must pretend to stand by his bargain. 
Would anybody marry if he realized what it might 
mean ? 

Something of that had come to his mother; as a 
regret, as though she had fallen short in her sweet 
solicitude, herself responsible for that which had be¬ 
fallen her son. Never a look of reproach, not even 
when the intimate relationship had to be broken, had 
she given him. Every childish danger had she pre¬ 
pared him for, but about the one momentous one, 
nothing. 

After Alma refused to go again to Surrey, after that 
last terrible day, he had tried to keep up the old sweet 
intimacy. Their letters, their love had never failed, 
but Alma thought his home trips were an extrava¬ 
gance; it came to be a twice a year visit. But never 
with Alma again. 

He didn’t like to remember that episode, the white, 
thoroughbred pain of his mother, the lashing, dis¬ 
torting anger of the daughter he had brought her— 

It had crushed Mary Graeme. Too fine ever to 
refer to it, covering it over with silence. “Her son’s 
wife was not very well.” Or: “The child could not 
be left alone.” An extra pressure of the hand at part¬ 
ing to let him know that she understood. 

He had realized then how hopeless it was. If one 
couldn’t get along with his mother, no use expecting 
friendship or sympathy for himself. Had he ever 
seen his mother give way to anger? Self control was 
the Wade creed. “The mark of the thoroughbred, 
my son!” He could see her now saying it. 


32 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


Even her first shock she had covered. She had 
come all the way from Surrey to meet them at the 
steamer, white and tremulous over the ordeal, but 
what else could a mother do when her son was bring¬ 
ing his wife and child home? Alma was pacing the 
deck, the baby on her hip, list already there from that 
steady pacing. She had a jersey on then, too, a grey 
jersey, and a grey knitted cap over her tightly twisted 
hair. 

“Alma?” 

He had observed the same look of incredulity on 
the faces of their fellow passengers when Alma had 
emerged from her cabin, several days out. He saw 
it later when his friends met her. But that was the 
only word from his mother. Her cordiality hid the 
strain. He fancied the girl, Isabel, was like that. 
“Couldn’t bear to think of that terrible paper being 
underneath her roses!’’ Wonderful, how it had awak¬ 
ened him, how those few minutes in there had started 
the old memories stirring! 

He could hear Alma’s step; leaving the kitchen; 
stopping at the front door to try the lock. He knew 
when she paused to lower the spitting gas jet. Knew 
when she came in. His paper was particularly en¬ 
grossing just then. No need to speak unless he were 
spoken to; not when her lips looked like that. Knew 
just how her lips were pressed together. How long 
was it decent to pretend that he did not know that she 
was standing in front of him? 

“Be sure to turn out the gas when you come up. 
You left it burning last night.” 

“Did I leave it burning?” 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 


33 

Wonder why all women don’t wear their hair that 
soft and jolly way ? Like a halo. Must be lots easier 
than screwing it up into a tight knot. Why should a 
woman want to look like the cartoons? It isn’t fair 
to her; unless she likes to look martyred. But he 
would never dare to suggest it to her again. She 
would say that he should not have married a servant. 

“What are you staring at me for?” 

He wasn’t staring. He was sorry, sorry about the 
gas. 

Scornful, silent incredulity! If she hated him so, 
if every word he said was vitriol to her soul, why did 
she stay with him? Why in some of those moments 
of deep anger did she never threaten to go back to her 
father? To old Krieger who was still pattering 
around in carpet slippers, with a blackened tooth or 
so yet in his mouth? It wasn’t decent, living like this. 
Holy, maybe, but not decent. It humbled him, took 
the stiffening out of his soul. 

Couldn’t look Fackenthal or Knight in the eyes, not 
since they knew— They had all seen—had seen her 
let go. A man can’t take the first step, not because he 
doesn’t care. It isn’t that he’s afraid. It’s like dis¬ 
carding a shabby coat, or an old horse, something no¬ 
body wants. 

“I’ll be coming up soon.” 

“You needn’t hurry.” The way she had of making 
her words work! The threat of the storm! Queer, 
that a man isn’t relieved when he sees the muddied 
waters are not going to overflow this time. Thinks 
instead of the minute ahead when the dikes must give 
way. Not nice, thinking of the dikes! One ought 




THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


34 

to enjoy the respite, instead of fearing—but it isn’t 
fear. A man isn’t afraid of his wife. It isn’t decent 
to have scenes, that’s all there is to that. No one 
raised right, in gentle homes, can stand scenes. 

“Sit down?’’ He got up and moved a chair for her, 
a straight-backed, comfortless chair, like all the rest, 
a little nearer to the fireless grate. 

“Thank you!’’ Her surprise hit him like a well- 
aimed blow. 

“Don’t you want to see the paper?’’ 

“I’m too tired. It’s late. But sometime, I would 
like to see the paper. To know what is going on.” 

“I leave it home for you, Alma.” 

“I’ve no time during the day.” 

“You keep too much mewed up, Alma. Can’t you 
get out oftener with the—with Alma?” He had 
almost said the baby! He knew what would happen 
should he say that! 

“Mewed up! I keep too much mewed up!” The 
dikes threatened to cave in. 

He hastened to say, “I know. I’m mewed up in 
the office, and you at home. There’s not much fun 
in it, is there ?” 

She looked at him as though he were a stranger. 

“I try to do my duty.” She lifted her jersey- 
covered arm to the gas-jet, lowering it. “I’m going 
to bed now.” 

He watched her leave the room, listing, unlovely, 
unloving. She was his wife. That was the reason 
she did not say good-night to him. Greetings, cour¬ 
tesy, the lubricating oil of our daily life, that’s for 
friends, for comrades. Artificial, unnecessary, be- 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 


35 

tween husband and wife who do not love each other. 
Wonder if friends ever marry, that is, do they stay 
friends? Not lovers,— friends? 

Those two, that other pair, what happened to them? 
Had they ever loved each other, meaning been fond 
of each other? Why was she afraid to let him know 
that she had been kind to a stranger, a man she 
thought a frozen tramp? Disturbing memories of his 
own home! A love match that had been, his father’s 
and mother’s. Satisfied, probably to the end, his 
father had been with his model housekeeper, his self- 
controlled banker, for that was what Mary Graeme 
was to the man she had married. But friends? Call 
it friendship, that patient self-effacement? Marriage ! 
The word left a sour taste in his mouth. 

He could hear Alma moving about in their room 
upstairs. He could hear her shuffling about the bed, 
knew she was turning the covers down, and taking off 
the coverlet, so that it would not get mussed. He 
could hear her going into the room where the child 
slept. Their child. The child that he had to re¬ 
member was his; the little girl he could not get near 
because of a fierce passion in Alma he could not under¬ 
stand. It was like jealousy. Sometimes he thought 
it was jealousy; sometimes fear. The affection she 
had refused to give to him, she lavished on that pite¬ 
ous child, the child which had never grown up. 

He knew that Alma was standing now at the foot 
of the small bed, watching her offspring with an in¬ 
tensity that was as much like rage as tenderness. He 
had often come upon her, gazing so. He always felt 
sorry for her. It must be hard on her, harder on her, 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


36 

on a mother when a child is like that. For himself, 
he had got over the first shock. It wouldn’t be so 
bad for Alma if she let herself face it. If she would 
acknowledge it, accept it, get the right kind of help for 
little Alma. He couldn’t suggest it any more; it 
always meant a storm. Then for days after, he 
wouldn’t see the child— She insisted on believing his 
solicitude was dislike— Poor Alma! Caught in the 
cage with him. Like those caged mice one sees in the 
bird shop on Old Street. Just going round and round. 
Makes one’s head reel to watch them, knowing they’ll 
keep on going till they die! Picture of himself and 
Alma, and Bird Place! 

Now, she was coming back to her own room. Now, 
a shoe falling. Now, the other, and a pattering over¬ 
head of stockinged feet. An hour, at least, before 
he could go up, assuming she was asleep— 

For some reason he did not wish to recall his ad¬ 
venture just then. Something had intruded between 
himself and the room of roses; a drab stripe. 

But he was not going to let himself fall back to the 
old warping bitterness. He’d make himself think of 
other things. City news; even figures of wool and 
goat’s hair. Anything but brooding, but bitterness 
which gets one nowhere. 

Her book! He’d forgotten her book! 


CHAPTER IV 


THE LAND WHERE THE DEAD DREAMS GO 

H E had said there was no poetry in London. 

No poetry? This wonderful panorama, 
poem, heart-throb was London. No trick 
about it. Just life. Almost vulgar, as she had said, 
the drab crowds, sordid contacts; must be vulgar, if 
real. He had caught it quivering, that writing fellow, 
pinned it to his page like a struggling moth, a drab dull 
moth, fluttering to get back to the spring out yonder 
somewhere. And then—spring come to the city 
streets ! Smell of spring brought back by the wheeling 
tunes. Drab souls all reaching to the heavens they 
have known, in the land where the dead dreams go! 

Staring into the empty grate, the book closed on 
his knee, he felt them fall—the shackles that had 
bound his soul. The comfortless room, the gas-jet 
burning low, not even Alma sleeping open-mouthed 
upstairs, nor that piteous child, nor the inflexible con¬ 
ditions of their daily life, nothing could ever again 
jail his spirit. His soul was his, not to be crushed by 
any one but himself. What relation did it bear, that 
thinking, hoping, shrinking part of him to material 
things outside of him; to Alma? Why should he 
write ‘‘Finished” over that door to the sanctuary which 
was himself? Finished, because he had made a grim 

mistake in a partnership? Why should that drag 

37 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


38 

him down to the level where she was determined they 
must all stay? 

Tribute to that mistake of his he must go on paying 
by his labour, but his soul belonged to himself. He 
had been starving it, denying it food and drink, with 
food and drink within reach! That writing fellow 
knows the trick! You have to send your soul out for 
an airing, as a boy takes his dog for a walk! Any 
reason why the soul must keep within the limits of the 
pendulum? Wonderful thought unfolding! 

Starving! For books, for music, starving his soul! 
Denying even the good things that had been; he had 
dreams to remember, if it were not strong enough, 
that jail-whitened spirit of his, to hope. He had been 
locking out memory, had denied it as a mocking imp, 
a sorrow’s crown of sorrows. Now, he knew it was 
false, that notion. It is memory they are feeding on, 
the souls behind those hopeless faces of the ’busses; 
dreaming they are of the poppies and the wheat, of 
the thing they hoped to be. 

When you have shut out memory,—and you have 
murdered hope, a man’s soul is dead. Dead soul in 
a living body! Picture of Wade Graeme, of Bird 
Place. Head down, butting blindly into the fog, 
seeing nothing ahead, not listening to the voices 
following, not hearing those wheeling tunes or the 
street cries, blind to flashes of colour, of beauty, like 
lightning rays across a dark sky! 

JVant to think it is all dark, soundless? Blind 
atom, caught in the pendulum! Men cannot go on 
that way; can’t stay dead. They may think they are 
dead, but growth of some sort is going on, if not the 


LAND WHERE DEAD DREAMS GO 39 

daily, upward strengthening to type, then a noxious, 
abnormal sort of growth, thwarted life-germs, running 
wild, breaking down into foulness, riots spreading out 
to a terrible destruction, but still living, still life. 
Box yourself up; deny yourself to the wreck that is 
yourself, you’re still going on, going somewhere, Wade 
Graeme! 

When the gas-jet burns too low for reading, if the 
Cape memories hurt, then try Surrey! Those were 
wonderful days, though, in the Karroo region, before 
things happened; days in the saddle, his soul flung out 
free; nights, on the ground, or on his cot, watching 
the stars wheel, reaching for something no man has 
yet conjured into words, no one has been able to press 
between the leaves of a book. Who was it who sat 
at his tent door and talked with angels? One of 
those Bible fellows, Abraham, he fancied. Knew just 
how he felt; he’d felt that way out there, watching 
the stars wheel. Not believing, but yearning to be¬ 
lieve. For if you could define God to man, would it 
be God? Wouldn’t it take a nick out of the infinite 
if the finite could limit it with a definition? Some one 
else has said that. Couldn’t remember who. Strange 
how the old thoughts had come running back! 

Son of Mary Graeme, son of a pastor, should have 
a sturdier belief, but you can’t force faith, can you? 
Pretend it, yes, but feel it? Force your knees to 
kneel, and your lips to pray, once a week on Sundays, 
because you’ve learned the habit, and Sunday is a dull 
day unless church helps you out—but faith, that’s a 
different thing! 

If Alma would not follow him, and of course, she 


40 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


would not follow him, he would go on alone. If she 
could not find the time to read the paper, would she 
ever stop to read a book? What could she do all 
day,—can it eat up a day, just putting a house to 
rights and looking after a child that is contented to 
play like a baby? Sewing a little—but there he was 
at the old habit, grumbling at her under his breathr, 
stultifying his own mind with the complaints he dared 
not voice to her! 

Moping would send him back at once to the old rut, 
side by side with her, consumed with self-pity. He 
was going to leave that rut. He was going to be free. 
Going to belong to himself. He’d go on outwardly 
just the same. He’d come home to dinner; he’d 
bring her his monthly check; receive back his monthly 
allowance for the following weeks; he’d go on seeming 
to be a slave, making the gestures of slavery, but his 
soul belonged henceforth to himself. He’d stop 
smoking. Not because Alma hated the smell on his 
clothes, but that with the surreptitious savings he 
might now and then buy a book which he could keep 
at the office. 

Starving! Starving for books and all the rest of 
it. What would it be like to hear good music again? 
A string quartette, for instance? How had he lived 
all those eight years, in reach of those joys, believing 
himself dead? 

Possible to go on, if you can separate the streams 
of life like that, possible to go on grubbing, sleeping, 
if you can send your spirit out like a young goat 
skipping free! An hour ago, hopelessly swaying to a 


LAND WHERE DEAD DREAMS GO 41 

’bus-rail, and wondering what kept them all from 
bursting out in rebellion. “Jammed and crammed in 
’busses, and they’re each of them alone, in the land 
where the dead dreams go!” 

Maybe not the most beautiful lines ever written, but 
the most wonderful to him! Because of their effect 
on him; their revitalizing power; the solitudes they 
illumined. And then he came, slowly, quietly, to 
Isabel. 

How soft and sweet she had looked as she said it, 
standing in her room of roses. “There’s one that’s 
wonderful.” That one. The book opened there. 
She had read it often enough to make the book split 
to that page. Belonging to that bland brute! No, 
not belonging. That’s the revelation. Belongs to 
herself. 

Just thinking of her, and it brought her into the 
room with him, or as clearly as if she had been in the 
room with him. The tenderness in the eyes, the 
pretty, capable hands! If a man can do that by 
thinking! If that’s what memory means! Life not 
niggardly, then, if one can think oneself into para¬ 
dise! Queer, what was happening to him. As though 
the blood were beginning to circulate through veins 
long clogged. 

Can one remember a voice? Hear it? Could he 
hear, in thought, that pretty, straying voice of hers? 
“Say it, all over again, Isabel!” 

And she said it again, to his straining memory. 
Told him what she had done with her walls, with her 
roses. Told him that he was “one of us, masquer- 


42 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


ading in Bird Place.” Told him that it would never 
be quite the same to him, London, if he read that 
poem. 

It would never be quite the same to him, Life! 

Wonderful, the finding of your soul’s wings! Let¬ 
ting them carry you out of your bonds, out of Bird 
Place! 

Go back to Haberdasher Street, why not, and do it 
all over again! Counting, head down, to her door 
once more. And then: “The door is on the latch!” 
Glow from an open door, and there she is, Isabel! 
The girl who is going to help him to his discovery 
that a man’s soul belongs to himself. The sweet, un- 
English voice of hers saying: “You’re frozen.” 
Seeing her. Seeing her among her roses ! 

The crumpled cushions, the sewing basket with its 
work out-tumbling. Afraid to breathe for fear the 
dream will break, and break down it does when the 
door opens, for nothing else had she said to him after 
the husband came in; just minds understanding each 
other. So back to the ’bus again, and over and over 
the experience, to hear her voice, to see the pity in her 
eyes when she said: “You’re frozen.” Over, and 
over; and over again. 

That’s the reason men can live; not because they 
sleep away, like dogs, the half of life. But because of 
that secret orchard, that locked up room to which 
one’s soul alone owns the key; the room that no one 
ever enters unless one bids him in. 

Just because there had been an accident in the sub¬ 
way, and the ’busses were crowded, and the fog was 
thick. Because he was dizzy from standing and 


LAND WHERE DEAD DREAMS GO 43 

swaying, and his counting had gone wrong. Too 
dazed to think quickly when the voice that did not 
belong to him— 

Belong to him? Did it belong then to that smug 
creature who hadn't heard when her mind spoke to 
him, to the stranger? Belonged to him, any more 
than his soul belonged to—Alma? Her spirit, free, 
too. Free to come to him, in his locked room when 
no one else was by to mock or scorch with words. 
Free to come to his call. 

Cherry trees abloom, ah, seas of bloom! Blaze of 
sky and blossoms falling! Standing there, wistful, 
tender,—standing there ! 

“You’re frozen!” But that was memory. If her 
spirit were free, why did it not speak to him? 

The dawn was creeping in the windows when the 
husband of Alma Graeme took his place by her side. 
One has to go to bed, if one must be seen getting up. 
One of the habits of the pendulum. But he knew now 
why men can go on living. 


CHAPTER V 


I.N MEMORIAM 

F ACKENTHAL, head of the firm of Facken- 
thal, Knight and Company, Limited, importers 
of wool and goat’s hair, for some weeks had 
been observing a change in one of his clerks, Graeme. 
He was walking differently; no longer like an old man; 
had spring to his step. He did not look beaten, 
finished; there was a suggestion of youth in his eyes. 
Other things, too, he had noted, which no one but 
Fackenthal would have thought w T orth recording. 
After awhile, when the old ways did not recur, he 
spoke to Knight about it. 

“Have you seen Graeme lately, to speak to? Did 
you notice any change in him?” 

Knight, fifty-eight, and finished, too, in his unsuc¬ 
cessful w r ay, a self-satisfied, self-centred w r ay, did not 
see changes. He heard threats of changes, and dis¬ 
couraged them. He liked things to go smoothly, as 
though on a greased track. What is the use, he would 
demand, of working hard half your life in order to get 
things running smoothly if you cannot enjoy the other 
half of it watching them go that way? Fackenthal, 
he complained, was a revolutionary, a discontent. He 
was always stirring up people, wanting to make them 
uncomfortable, or dissatisfied, just because he himself 
liked activity, no matter where it led! Restless, 

44 


IN MEMORIAM 


45 


rather; he had never outgrown that youthful restless¬ 
ness of his! Fackenthal liked to call it progressivism, 
but it was youthfulness. Though he was only three 
years older, he always had to curb his partner’s youth¬ 
ful impulses, to keep the brake on Fackenthal. 

“Graeme? No.” His tone, he hoped, disposed 
of Graeme. Bad enough, the fool marriage, which 
had wrecked his life, and his mother’s too. It was 
bad enough, marrying her, spoiling his career, the 
chances they had given him, out there, but to have 
made everybody else uncomfortable by bringing her 
home! Whatever the story was, any one could see 
that that was the reason he came running home, in¬ 
stead of staying and making a place for himself! 
Boys of his age, alone, will get into scrapes, but to 
thrust his foolishness under the world’s nose, to let 
such a person follow him home, expect the old friends 
to pretend that she’s quite like other people, why, 
that’s a different matter! 

His tone asked Fackenthal if he could be expected 
to keep up an interest in a man, even for the sake of 
old connections, after a drab fiasco like that? Why, 
you could see what it had done to the fellow! It had 
dragged him down, to her level. After all the chances 
they had given him, what was he? A drudge. Fin¬ 
ished. A routine man. Oh, yes, faithful enough, 
but weren’t all the younger men outstripping him? 
He had no initiative, no ambition. 

“Something’s come over him,” persisted Facken¬ 
thal. “I’ve been watching him. He’s picking up.” 

Knight shrugged. He wouldn’t say that he thought 
this was one of his partner’s youthful fancies! 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


46 

“He’s gone out to lunch. I met him as I came in. 
Come to his desk a minute.” 

Knight shrugged again, but followed his junior 
partner. Fackenthal led the way through the ad¬ 
joining room, his own, and through the clerks’ offices, 
now deserted for the lunch hour. He passed on into 
the room beyond which Graeme shared with two 
others. That was also empty. 

“Well?” Knight looked at his friend through his 
finished, incurious glasses. 

“That’s his corner; and his desk. The one with the 
flowers.” 

“Does that kind of a woman grow a garden? 
Roses?” Squinting, Knight approached the desk. 
“Do roses grow at Hoxton?” 

“I told you that something’s been changing him. 
Eve been watching him. He’s waking up. I thought 
he was finished, too. I know—we know. He was 
crushed; he didn’t seem half alive. But he’s straight¬ 
ening up. He’s looking more like himself, his moth¬ 
er’s son. These roses? Every week he brings in a 
few of them. Nurses them through the week. I’ve 
seen him changing the water. He’s had that picture 
framed. It’s a new one. That’s Wade House, 
Mary Graeme’s home at Surrey.” 

The two men peered through their middle-aged 
glasses at the house set in a quaint, box-bordered gar¬ 
den. The French windows opened directly on the 
lawn which ran to meet the encroaching shrubbery and 
old, overhanging trees. Foxgloves and delphiniums 
added spikes of beauty to the dense background. The 
photographer had achieved a triumph of filtering sun- 


IN MEMORIAM 


47 

light which was streaming through the leafy shade and 
making patterns on the close-cropped grass. 

Knight, who had been for several decades a pro¬ 
saic grandfather, recalled that there had been some¬ 
thing particularly pleasing about that garden. He 
had a vague recollection of a wish to marry the girl 
who had grown up there. Graeme, Fackenthal and 
himself, he remembered, used to spend most of their 
time in the neighbourhood of Wade House, playing 
tennis on the courts hidden by those trees, drinking 
tea on the shaded lawns, or behind those French 
windows, reading or talking with Mary Wade and her 
friends before she married Graeme, “the lazy curate!” 

Much of this, however, had passed into the mist 
which obscures all unrelated things to men of Knight’s 
type. He still yielded loyalty to Surrey because he 
was born, had spent his youth there; he still main¬ 
tained connections with established families, but these 
were growing fewer. The picture brought no poig¬ 
nant memories. Had he married Mary, had she born 
him his four successful children, his youthful adora¬ 
tion had long since become a steady, more egotistical 
passion. There are not many fortunates among 
women who, though not permitted to inherit the name 
of Knight, may be allowed to mother it. One who 
could look lightly on such a destiny could not expect 
to be more than a ghost of memory. 

Fackenthal picked up another photograph, placing 
it in Knight’s hand. 

“Mary Graeme.” 

Knight looked at it gravely, and long, a queer 
expression coming into his eyes. He was remem- 


4 8 THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 

bering things long forgotten, memory achieving a 
poignancy— 

“Queer, that marriage! Damned fine woman, and 
to have married Graeme. Good blood in him, but a 
hanger-on. Lived on her money. Lived it up, too. 
The son’s like his father—” 

“The son’s like her,” resisted Fackenthal. “He 
could not help but be like her. She breathed herself 
into him. It broke her heart, that marriage. She 
fought death, hating to leave him, like this. That’s 
why I have been so persistent in keeping him—for her 
sake—hoping he’d come back to his own.” 

“Dead timber,” repeated Knight, for the hundredth 
time. 

“I don’t think so. I think it’s coming out all right. 
I must confess I was worried for a long time. But 
I’d promised her—” 

“Well?” demanded Knight. That was always the 
trouble with Fackenthal, he thought. He would put 
sentiment into business. As though sentiment had any 
relation to wool and goat’s hair, and the daily routine 
of that sober office! Favouritism, familiarity, the 
habit of establishing with his clerks a relationship 
other than that of employer and employe, that was his 
partner’s weakness. He had to keep a stern rein on 
Fackenthal’s impulses. Where would they be now if 
he had given in to all of his whims? 

His associate had picked up a few books which had 
been lying on the desk. “Library books. And those 
on that shelf are his. He bought the shelf, too.” 

“Poetry!” 




IN MEMORIAM 


49 

“Yes, but see these. Bryce on South Africa, Mills 
on the South African trade. MacPherson on the 
British domination in South Africa. The Boer War. 
Henry George. Noyes. Stephen Phillips.” 

“Well, what of it?” demanded Knight. A hodge¬ 
podge of books—poetry, political history, essays. 
Something was expected of him. He hadn’t been 
brought in here for nothing. Fackenthal was up to 
some mischief. He recognized the signs. 

“It means,” Fackenthal paused as he replaced, care¬ 
fully, the books and the picture. “It means that the 
man is trying to keep his soul alive. Trying to feed it, 
in secret. Why doesn’t he take those books home? 
That shelf. He’s making this corner his home. 
Those pictures, here—not at his house ! Why does he 
cut his luncheon short to read here, as he is doing? 
Why does he come, at night, once or twice a week, 
with a sandwich for dinner, to read here? The jani¬ 
tor has told me. The roses, the pictures, the books! 
Ever been to Hoxton Square?” 

“What do you want me to do about it? Move him 
from Hoxton? Establish him, with that person, at 
Knightsbridge ? Bring her into her circle ? We tried 
that once, you remember.” 

“First, I don’t want you to consider him finished.” 

Another of his partner’s foibles. As though think¬ 
ing, having a definite opinion about a person, made 
any difference! Fantastic! What’s a thought!” 

Fackenthal followed him out of the room. “I want 
you to have faith in him. It’s like a new soul being 
born. I want you to help him,” 


50 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


Knight waited to establish himself in his mahogany 
desk chair before inquiring what it was that Facken- 
thal was plotting? 

“He’s given me an idea. At least, reminded me of 
an old one.” 

Fackenthal, slender and virile, blue-eyed and grey- 
topped, stood in the centre of the room, facing Knight 
who was leaning back in his swivel chair, his fingers 
making a church steeple. It was his favourite, ju¬ 
dicial pose. 

Something new. Something faddy. It must be 
discouraged. Fackenthal had to be protected from 
himself. 

“The place where a man spends half of his life 
shouldn’t be a desk and drab walls, inside, and brick 
walls outside, and that the sum of it,” stated Facken¬ 
thal. “Should it be a place which a man likes to stay 
in, or get away from?” 

“It ought to be a good place to work in,” returned 
Knight with firmness. “There should be nothing to 
distract him from his work.” 

“Do you do poorer work since your wife and I per¬ 
suaded you to get some new furniture and a new car¬ 
pet?” demanded his partner. “And you’ve a soft nest 
at home. It doesn’t matter so much to you, or to me. 
But suppose you lived at Hoxton, lots of ’em living 
in places like Hoxton, or worse. That’s where they 
have to go when we’re through with them, unless it 
gets too fierce. And then, they go where they can’t 
afford to go, but it’s bright, and it suggests beauty—” 

“How much have you figured that it will cost?” 
For he knew now what Fackenthal was after. He al- 


IN MEMORIAM 


5i 

so knew that his partner never spoke until his thoughts 
had crystallized, and then, unless it were too costly, it 
were far easier to capitulate than to argue with him. 
It was tedious, arguing with Fackenthal. 

“Colouring the walls, painting the woodwork, doing 
the floors decently, a few framed photographs on the 
walls, a few books, about twenty-five pounds.” 

Twenty-five pounds! 

“If you don’t approve of it, I’ll do it myself.” 

A nasty way Fackenthal had of hinting, always, 
that he, a Knight, was mean. All the Knights were 
large-handed. Of course, he couldn’t allow him to do 
it himself. Nasty way, though, of putting the thumb¬ 
screws on! 

“But books!” he objected. “The next thing you’ll 
be giving the men a share in the profits of the bus¬ 
iness.” The gibe was ill-advised. He would have 
recalled it, midway. 

“That, you know, is what I’ve always wanted to do.” 

“I’ll never give in to you about that,” blustered 
Knight. 

“I’ve stopped arguing. I’m only half the firm. I 
can’t do that over your head.” 

“You couldn’t do it over my dead body!” Exasper¬ 
ating to feel yourself getting worked up, knowing that 
the same thing happens every time that that topic is in¬ 
voked, with Fackenthal getting calmer the hotter you 
get! 

“Now, that’s where you are wrong!” retorted 
Fackenthal. “Nobody will grieve more than I will 
at your funeral. Nobody will be sorrier, for I’m fond 
of you, Knight, or I wouldn’t have put up with you for 


5 2 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


so long, but the next day I'd reorganize, socialize the 
firm. And you know that, too." 

The talk had taken an ugly turn. It made him 
think of those twinges he had been having lately. 
Nothing serious there, of course. It was absurd of 
Fackenthal to suggest death— He pushed the grim 
thought out of sight. That was a long way off. He 
thought he would go to the doctor's though, about 
those twinges. It was nothing. The doctor would 
tell him it was nothing. 

“I'll go ahead with those repairs," finished Facken¬ 
thal, leaving the room. 

“Of course, the firm will stand for it,” Knight called 
after him. 

He'd been firm about the vital thing, anyway. 
Fackenthal was always bringing up that subject! 
Why, the men were contented! They weren't asking 
for anything. What was the use of offering them 
something they did not know they wanted? Absurd, 
quixotic. It would ruin them; make them cocky. 
They'd be wanting immediately to run the business it 
had taken Fackenthal and himself a lifetime to learn. 
Not over his dead body. He was good for twenty 
years yet. Those twinges meant nothing. 

A few days later, workmen invaded the offices. 
The clerks were packed, temporarily, into one room. 
In a day or so, they would have to be moved into the 
rooms of the partners. Fackenthal suggested that as 
Knight was looking a bit seedy, a few days at the sea¬ 
shore might tone him up. Knight decided to try the 
coast instead of a doctor. The offices were uncom¬ 
fortable; they were crowded, and reeked of turpentine. 


IN MEMORIAM 


S3 

His wife was already at Scarborough. The worst 
would be over by the time he got back. 

There was little of the old order when he returned, 
a week later. He expressed himself as grateful that 
his room had been spared. 

‘‘Good enough for a while yet,” smiled Fackenthal, 
who looked as though he had been enjoying himself. 

“For a while ! It was only three years ago that they 
were done. They'll do a long time yet,” he snapped. 
He had seen the clerks’ rooms, but not the bills. He 
knew that twenty-five pounds would never cover it. 
He also knew Fackenthal well enough to know that 
his share of the agreed twenty-five would be all he 
would be asked to pay, so what use in alluding to it? 

The walls were soft-coloured, the paint properly 
dull, the floors stained and polished. There were a 
few decent rugs; here and there a photograph, nicely 
framed; and two good etchings; one an artist proof. 

They didn’t look like offices where good, steady 
work is turned out. Who’d think that the sedate 
affairs of wool and goat’s hair were transacted in those 
fancy rooms? Demoralizing, he thought, but he did 
not say so to Fackenthal. 

“I forgot to show you the rest room.” Fackenthal 
turned back towards the men’s quarters. 

“The rest room?” 

“We’ve crowded the men together; I’ve put two 
in Graeme’s rooms, and two in Gryce’s. That gives 
an extra room. It’s small, and it was always too dark 
to work in. Expensive, too; it always had to be lit.” 
The amendment was adroit, and no one knew it better 
than Knight. 


54 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


“And doesn’t now?” asked his partner, sceptically, 
following Fackenthal. 

“It’s not in constant use. If a man doesn’t want to 
go out to lunch, or wants to stretch out for a few 
minutes, that’s all. It’s small; really inadequate. I’d 
have got another room if there had been one. There 
isn’t another on this floor.” 

Of course, he’d have got an extra room! For 
those “pets” of his. Ruins them. Just ruins them. 

“Why don’t you put in a shower bath, and a smok¬ 
ing room?” he inquired with heavy irony. 

“Bully idea! I’ll do that the next time you go to 
Scarborough,” his sarcasm as heavy. He threw open 
the door. 

It was a gem of a room. The reading lights were 
shaded; a substantial table was covered with maga¬ 
zines and papers; book shelves, with only a few books 
yet; armchairs, two couches, with cushions, the soft, 
inviting kind. There was an Oriental rug on the 
floor. Knight had never paid any attention to colour 
schemes but he did know that the room had an im¬ 
mediately restful effect. He’d always said that 
Fackenthal had missed his vocation; he should have 
been an interior decorator! 

“Our club,” announced his partner. “The men take 
to it like ducks to water. You’ll use it, too, Knight. 
You ought to run in after you have had your lunch, 
and snooze a bit. It’s empty then. You’ve got to 
take care of yourself, old man.” 

“Luxury!” snorted Knight. 

“It’s not the firm’s luxury. This is my party, 
Knight. It came to me while I was doing it, why I 


IN MEMORIAM 


55 


was doing it. I had Graeme helping me. He has 
taste, an instinct for the right thing, only he doesn't 
know it. It’s a monument, this room. I didn’t tell 
Graeme, but it’s Mary Graeme’s monument. She’d 
like that better than a slab which wouldn’t do her boy 
any good. You’ll never see the bill for this room, 
Knight.” 

Mary Graeme’s monument! 

Something stirred in Knight; the thought of flowers 
and moonlight. Flowers and moonlight for youthful 
lovers, in a Surrey garden, and then flowers and moon¬ 
light on a lonely grave. What was it that moved 
him? Was it the thought of his own death, or of 
(Mary Graeme’s grave in Surrey, or that stubborn 
loyalty of Fackenthal who, because he did not get the 
woman he loved, had never taken unto himself 
another? 

Memories surging back! Mary’s garden; friend¬ 
ships and fidelity; long forgotten sorrows; and death. 
He was silenced before Fackenthal, before Something 
Else—a faith men like to deny, or push out of sight, 
but which keeps men strong and true, and silent, and 
women, women like Mary Graeme, still and sweet. 
And at the end, as at the beginning, flowers and moon¬ 
light ! 

“I’d like to pay for it,” he said, surprising himself. 
“I’d like to have a share in it.” 

“It’s the best investment I ever made,” gloated his 
friend. “I’m going to be hoggish about it. But you 
can add to the books, if you wish.” 

“I’ll fill up these shelves,” said Knight. 

So it was left that way. 


CHAPTER VI 


IF I HAD A WIFE LIKE THAT? 

G RAEME had been reaching out, as his em¬ 
ployer had divined, for a place in the sun; 
towards those unforgotten, radiant regions 
where music and poetry and beauty can make even a 
maimed life worth the living. Stretched out on one of 
the couches in the den, as the men came to call it, he 
wondered often how long he could have pushed on 
without it? Just how long his renaissance, lacking 
the miracle of this retreat, could have withstood the 
grim facts of his existence? With a book hidden be¬ 
hind the newspaper in the sordid room by the empty 
grate, that his only outlet? 

Hard to keep sturdy the hope that life is what you 
yourself make it, if you are locked in a jail with one 
w r ho believes that you belong to her, and that life is 
a composite thing, you not even a divisible half of it, 
just hopelessly blended, identity left way back on the 
rocks somewhere, on that precipice where you and she 
took the leap in the dark together! 

How long could he have kept up this fight against 
fate if he had not been allowed this haven? Behind 
his paper, waiting for Alma to get to bed; listening to 
her as she paced the kitchen, or marched about over¬ 
head; nerving himself against her tirades, nursing his 
own bitterness, how long could he have kept up the 


IF I HAD A WIFE LIKE THAT? 57 

farce of believing that he belonged to himself? 

He had never dreamed of having a place to work in! 
He hadn’t even realized, at first, what it was going to 
mean to him, having such a nest to crawl to! Like 
coming in frozen from the icy streets; one doesn’t 
thaw out at once. Nights there were when he could 
not read, when he would lie outstretched, body and 
spirit resting. No resentful voice to dread; no steps 
threatening to spoil a dream or fading memory. He 
belonged here to himself! 

The soft-tinted walls were a balm to the eyes so 
long sickly rebellious against the horrors of Bird 
Place. The pictures on the walls reminded him that 
beauty was not dead in London, although he himself 
had been so long dead to beauty. They had prompted 
a visit to the picture galleries, paid for in time, by 
going in his lunch hour. 

He had an objective now. He wanted to renew his 
old acquaintances, art acquaintances, and to make new 
ones. They had been doing a lot in art since he had 
stopped looking at pictures. He did not understand 
the new things; he’d missed the successive steps. He 
felt like a foreigner before the modern canvases. 
He determined to know something about these new 
schools. 

And some day he was going to steal an afternoon, 
and go to a symphony concert. Alma would never 
know. A wicked extravagance she would think it. 
But if such things give one courage to go on, give one 
courage to meet her, and an added softness to one’s 
greeting, is it such an extravagance, after all? 
Wouldn’t it be more extravagant to do without it? 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


58 

Was that sophistry? Was he learning to defend his 
own wishes by proving that the result of the indul¬ 
gence justified something which were else wrong? 

Books were not so rare, now, since he’d learned the 
trick of the free library. But the clean pages of the 
new room, their intimate cosmopolitanism, like friends 
from afar meeting at one’s hearthstone, delighted him 
daily. Easy for a man’s soul to find wings in a room 
like this! Easy, when every one else has gone home, 
to pretend that the shaded lights are his; that this was 
his own retreat. He could almost believe in such 
moments that he was the man he meant to be. Pre¬ 
tend to be what he is not, by continued pretence might 
he not grow a little nearer to the boy she used to call 
“My son”? 

• •••••• 

From afar, Fackenthal watched the working out of 
his experiment. All the clerks enjoyed the room, but 
one of them, Graeme, had acquired a different expres¬ 
sion. Still wistful his face, but no longer beaten. It 
was the look of a man who is conscious of what he has 
missed. It pleased his employer to see him bask in 
the new comforts, not dreaming that they bore any re¬ 
lation to his mother. No one but Knight knew of the 
Atropian twist: that the room was a monument. 

“Waking up,” noted Fackenthal. But what was it 
that had impelled the waking? When a man’s soul 
has been dying, for years dying, and his renaissance 
comes swiftly like that, what is the motive apt to be, a 
safe stimulus, or one to be feared? 

“It may mean a different kind of helping,” he spec¬ 
ulated. 


IF I HAD A WIFE LIKE THAT? 59 

Coming in late from the club one evening, to get 
some papers his secretary had left for his signature, 
the janitor told him that Graeme was “still in there.” 
Fackenthal went in, quite as it were by accident. He 
found Wade reading, a book spread out on the broad 
arm of the American made chair. Poems! 

He pretended not to see a sandwich which was 
hastily covered. 

“I’m glad that you make use of the room once in a 
while,” commended Fackenthal. 

“There was work I wanted to finish,” stumbled his 
clerk. 

“An hour at this time is worth three at any other,” 
returned Fackenthal, shutting the door upon a “Good¬ 
night, Graeme!” 

Poetry, yes, but Kipling’s poetry. That didn’t look 
mawkish. He hadn’t yet discovered the clue. 

The second time, finding him thus, Fackenthal gave 
the poetry reading more thought. Was the man drift¬ 
ing, or did he know whither and why he was going? 
He did not want to force his confidence, still he might 
be needing help, Mary Graeme’s son. Maybe, it was 
very probable, he was groping blindly for a way out of 
the darkness. 

Nasty mess, to be tied for life to that sort of per¬ 
son. The only way one can understand a man is 
putting yourself like that in his place. 

“If I had a wife like that?” 

He forced, deliberately, a picture of Alma Graeme, 
as he had several times seen her. Not bad looking. 
It wasn’t a matter of looks, that is of features. It was 
more than that. Shocking, only, to one who has 


6o 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


known the Wades, who has sensed the sensitiveness of 
the man. Thin, her lips were; nose over-sharp; hinted 
that you need not expect sweetness or softness of the 
spirit back of the mask; hair drawn tight—oh no com¬ 
promises, no gentle graciousness from Alma Graeme! 

The name recalled the other woman: Mary Graeme, 
tall, slender, thoroughbred. It gave him now a pang, 
always, that he could think of her without a pang, that 
is calmly, with controlled regret. That meant he was 
getting old. He would like to keep the prick of 
loyalty, of loneliness; which means youth and passion. 

Had his own graciousness ever been put to a more 
severe test than that day at Wade House, when the 
Knights and himself journeyed there in answer to the 
invitation to meet “my son’s wife, Alma!” That 
stiff, impossible day! He had been glad to get away. 
The only time he had been glad to leave Mary Graeme. 

The South African was misplaced, and she had not 
tried to hide it. She was not their kind, and she hated 
them because they knew she was not their kind. She 
seemed, even then, years older than her husband. 
What could he have seen in her? It was only a couple 
of years since their marriage, and she was already a 
sour, aging and graceless woman. 

Mary it was, gentle always, who had told her guests 
when a chance had come, that Alma had been carrying 
the baby when it was far too heavy for her. On her 
hip. The Cape way! 

“Alma is a devoted mother.” He could see her 
now, saying it. She could always find the redeeming 
quality in any one, even in Alma, who so openly re¬ 
buffed her. 


IF I HAD A WIFE LIKE THAT? 61 


There was some mystery about the child. He him¬ 
self had never seen it; neither that day, nor when he 
had journeyed to Hoxton Square. Twice he had gone 
there. Neither at the Knights’, that last effort at 
friendliness, when for old connection’s sake a week¬ 
end had included all the Graemes. Again the child 
was farmed out somewhere. “Fragile,” Mary had 
told them. The Graemes had made it their excuse 
for being the first to leave. 

Women would say that she did not know how to 
dress. She did have a savage taste. But it was more 
than clothes. It went deeper than that. She wasn’t 
their class. She came of a rough, sullen stripe that he 
did not comprehend. 

The Knights had vowed then to wash their hands of 
them. Perhaps had Mary Graeme lived, for her 
sake they might again have tried to bring into their 
circle the son’s wife. But a year or so later that fine, 
silken thread had snapped. Gradually, he realized, 
they had grown accustomed to see Wade take his place 
colourlessly, mechanically, as a part of the machinery; 
the social, friendly relations forgotten. 

“We have let him go too long,” mused Fackenthal 
on his way to his bachelor apartments, after discovering 
Graeme the second time in the rest room, hunched 
over a book of poems. “Knight couldn’t keep it up. 
It involved the women. Like mixing oil and water.” 

But he had no women folks to complicate things. 
Confound it, why had he never thought of that before? 
If he’d a wife like that, wouldn’t he prize the minutes 
spent away for her? Was there any reason why the 
son of Mary Graeme shouldn’t dine with him, with 


6 2 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


his employer, at the club, once in a while? And with¬ 
out any offence to the wife. It would jar Graeme up 
a bit, would let him see what other men are doing. 
He thinks, maybe, that all other men are happy in 
their homes! 

Because one has a millstone tied around one’s neck, 
no reason that one should stay alone, always, mourn¬ 
fully contemplating it! Marriage isn’t all there is to 
life, thank God, or where’d he be? 

Fie would have to put that thought into Graeme’s 
head, by one means or another: that an unfortunate 
marriage does not necessarily finish one. It’s not the 
whole of life; should not be the test of life. It would 
take time, time and tact, to get it to Graeme that it 
is not a man’s duty to stay down in the gutter with a 
woman who is determined to stay there. If not for 
his own sake, then for the sake of the proud 
Wade traditions, he would urge Wade to keep on 
struggling. 

In the meantime, he would ask him to the club, he 
would get him in the habit of meeting people. He 
would prod him out of his shell. 

Meeting him in the outer office one evening, he sug¬ 
gested, as though casually, a dinner at the club. “Just 
you and me. If you’ve nothing else on.” 

“I’m sorry. I can’t, tonight. I’ve nothing else. 
But I didn't tell Alma.” He was buttoning himself 
into his worn overcoat. The raw air from the streets 
ran to meet them in the corridor as they passed out 
together. “She expects me. I always tell her if I’m 
going to stay down, or, or—she keeps things waiting 
for me. I’m sorry. I should have enjoyed it.” 


IF I HAD A WIFE LIKE THAT? 63 

It was finely done, thought Fackenthal. If one had 
never seen Alma, one would have been given a picture 
of a sweet, womanly presence; of a helpful wife, 
loving, and kind. 

He looked away. Having seen Alma, it was easier 
not to be looking at Graeme as he put forward the 
pretence of the contented married man. 

“Tomorrow night, then?” 

They paused for an instant at the outer door which 
led to bleak and icy Fetter Lane. There was a soft 
flurry of snow falling; a few feathery scouts that might 
mean rain armies or snow armies before morning. 

“Thank you.” Graeme was turning up his thin, in¬ 
effectual collar. “It’s awfully kind of you. I’ll ar¬ 
range to stay down tomorrow night.” 

“Can’t I give you a lift?” 

“I take the tube. It’s just a few steps. Thank 
you. Good-night, Mr. Fackenthal.” 

From the window of his limousine, Fackenthal 
again saw Graeme, head down, making his way against 
the soft confusion of rain and snow. He was hurry¬ 
ing towards the tube, that he might not be late for 
the dinner which was waiting for him. 

“Poor devil!” He thought he would enjoy the com¬ 
fort of his machine, the warmth of his fur collared 
coat, if he had not seen Graeme. 

“It will be snowing, before morning,” he thought, 
looking out of the blurred window, at the crowds hurry¬ 
ing homewards. “This the rawest stretch of weather, 
between winter and spring.” He pictured the club, 
its warmth and brightness, and again thought of 
Graeme, Mary Graeme’s son. 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


6 4 

Jepson, of the Globe f was leaving the club as 
Fackenthal entered the vestibule. 

“I’m sorry you’re leaving. I need good company!” 

He liked Jepson. Jepson always kept things going. 
He wished Graeme could meet him. 

“Why can’t you dine with me tomorrow evening? 
A young friend of mine will be with me; I’d like to 
have you meet.’’ 

“Pleased,” said Jepson. “Seven o’clock?” 

It was a good thought asking Jepson, reflected Fack¬ 
enthal, passing on towards the stairs. There was no 
one better fitted to stimulate a feeble renaissance. And 
it would need a third party to keep them off the shoals 
of reminiscences. 

Great invention a club was! Where there are 
always gay voices, and the machinery is always in 
order. He must pull Graeme in, if he could. The 
man needed just that sort of thing. 

An attendant respectfully halted him. 

“Mr. Bolten’s waiting for you in the library. He 
would like a game of chess, sir.” 

“Thank you, Hawkins. How’s that sick boy of 
yours ?” 

“He’s still in bed, sir. He’s better; still eating that 
fruit you sent him, sir. Thank you for asking, sir.” 


CHAPTER VII 


A CLUB DINNER 

H E had not expected to enjoy the dinner. He 
knew Fackenthal well enough, he kept telling 
himself, not to dread patronage from him, but 
how could he help being a sort of social millstone 
around his employer’s neck? Wasn’t he out of touch 
with everything? Couldn’t help showing that he was 
out of touch with everything and everybody. 

What’s the use of being shown what you may not 
have? Like dragging poor children around the 
Christmas shops and showing them what luckier chil¬ 
dren are going to be given. What’s the use meeting 
men you will never meet again? Or if you do meet 
them again, it’s years later, again with your employer, 
and they have met so many hundreds since that it’s 
natural they shouldn’t remember you. And then you 
feel like a donkey because you do remember them; re¬ 
member them well, because of that one pleasant eve¬ 
ning, so that their faces are like friends’ faces. For 
you’ve been nowhere since. That one cud of memory 
to chew on, the evening when your soul stretched out 
and felt like an insider, like one belonging! 

Feeling now like an owl, blinking at the lights. 
Awkward, to be a stranger in your own city! Not 
knowing any one, not nodding to any one. It wasn’t 

so bad, that last time; going on eight years now. It 

65 


66 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


was all right then to be a stranger. You couldn’t be 
expected to know people if you’d been in South Africa 
for three years. No one remembers any one for three 
years. You do. Because you’ve not so much to re¬ 
member. You can remember even the things they 
said to you. Suppose any of them did remember you. 
Enough to ask: “Where’ve you been? Back to the 
Cape again?” 

Suppose one answered truthfully: “No. Bird 
Place!” 

His always the role of employe, following his 
employer. Only way he’d break into this place, slink¬ 
ing after Fackenthal. What had he come for, he 
wondered. What could they talk about? Surrey? 
Nice topic, Surrey! Surrey and the old home, that 
would be stimulating, to talk about Wade House which 
after his mother’s death he found belonged to Facken¬ 
thal. Sold years before, he’d learned, so that he might 
go to college. 

He learned about it too late to say he was sorry. 
It was like his mother not to tell him. What it must 
have cost her proud spirit to go to Fackenthal, to ask 
help from any one! His father must have been a 
dub, too. No one had ever told him, but he’d gathered 
that. 

What else would they talk about? Alma? “And 
how is the child getting on? How old is it? Nine? 
Dear me. How time runs away with us!” What 
had possessed him to come? Going to have a rotten 
time. Like an owl; like nothing else but an owl. 

Fackenthal was searching for some one, looking 


A CLUB DINNER 67 

around the long, oak-lined room. Every one he had 
passed had had a word for him. 

“I’m hunting for Jepson; he is going to dine with 
us. There he is, now!” 

They would not talk about Surrey; old times. He 
wouldn’t have to watch for quicksands. 

Jepson, discovered among a group of black frock- 
coated crows, was in tweeds, indifferently supple¬ 
mented. He looked negligent, as though he’d dressed 
in a hurry, especially when he stood by Fackenthal, the 
most distinguished looking man in the room, to 
Graeme’s thinking. 

“I’m hungry!” discovered Fackenthal. “Shall we 
go in?” 

As they entered the dining-room, Graeme had his 
first pleasurable anticipation. Good food; not 
burned! Old wines—he knew Fackenthal’s taste— 
Rhenish wines, Liebfraumilch. Pleasant faces; no¬ 
body angry with you. Going to have a bully time, 
after all. 

Proud, too, to be the guest of Fackenthal; proud to 
reflect that it was an old, established friendship. A 
fine, direct gaze he had! Watch him as he answers 
that question of Jepson’s! Well-informed. He 
keeps up. He knows what he is talking about. 

Fackenthal’s mind as neat as his clothes. Never a 
fleck, never a hasty tie. Odd that you don’t think of 
it when you look at him, that you never know what 
kind of clothes he is wearing! You think of the man; 
of those genial, direct eyes of his; of the fine, strong 
face with its bleaching crown. 


68 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


One has to be in his office, day by day, to know that 
his method, in dress, manner, system, is unlike 
unfailing. Scrupulous about details; nothing sloppy 
or unfinished from Fackenthal. His facts all 
marshalled, carefully filed. Could one see into his 
mind it would look, he was sure, like his private office, 
like his own individual filing system, or his personal 
affairs. 

His office disclosed his wide-ranged interests. 
Wool and goat’s hair, that’s the job of the underlings, 
the details of the business, to tabulate them, keep a 
finger on them. But the related things, human inter¬ 
ests, the relation of wool and goat’s hair to the rest 
of the world, the relation of Fackenthal to the rest of 
the world, those were right under his thumb, in his own 
room. He was never too busy to be a man, always, 
never the business automaton. Different from Knight. 
Wool and goat’s hair in Knight’s office, all right! 

“I’m sorry! Did you speak to me, Mr. Jepson?” 

Jepson did not wait for an answer. Jepson was 
insisting that England was rushing on her doom. 
“Look at the men she’s raising; runts! She lets them 
be runts. She doesn’t look after her men. Can she 
expect they’ll love her enough to sacrifice themselves 
for her when the time comes? And the time’s com¬ 
ing! It’s laissez faire with England. If you’ve got 
a country place, or have friends with a country place, 
so that you can ride and golf on Sundays, it’s good to 
live in England. But if you haven’t—do you know 
any one who hasn’t, or who hasn’t a friend who has, 
ask him what sort of a parent, or host, is England. 
It’s a dangerous game that, of laissez faire.” 


A CLUB DINNER 69 

“The Englishman loves his England,” smiled 
Fackenthal. Not easy to get Fackenthal excited. 

“Is proud of England,” amended Jepson. “Proud 
of her place in the world, of her relations with other 
nations, rather than of her relations with the man in 
the street.” 

Know any one who hasn’t a country place? One 
pretty close. He could tell them something of the 
loneliness of the neglected seven millions. 

“And not always proud of her,” he found himself 
saying unexpectedly, suddenly thinking out loud. Jep¬ 
son turned to look at him, as though to ask the reason 
why he, Graeme, thought Englishmen were not always 
proud of England. He couldn’t say it in a hurry. It 
looked foolish, letting the sentence hang there. Had 
to let it hang, when it came to him, in a flash, who 
Jepson was. 

Of course, Jepson of the Globe, and of the Country 
Pictorial. Jepson! 

Had any one told him out there at the Cape that 
he’d ever be dining with Jepson of the Globe he would 
not have believed it. If he were the man he’d intended 
being then, this would be the opportunity of his life, 
meeting Jepson of the Globe. 

“You’re not so apt to challenge it, either the love, 
or the pride, in peace, do you think?” inquired Facken¬ 
thal. “That’s the discovery of our heroic moments. 
A man forgets to talk about his love for his wife on 
baking-days and wash-days,—but let the house take 
fire, and he’s as eager to save her as though she were 
the old-time sweetheart.” 

“It’s not a good comparison! Suppose England a 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


70 

large landowner. Charges her tenants rent, and for¬ 
gets them the rest of the time. Doesn’t care whether 
they have bathtubs, or breathing space, and keeps her 
lawn parties to herself; doesn’t bother to ask whether 
their children have clothes to wear to school or not, 
or if they’re growing properly. Now have your fire. 
That’s a war, of course. The landowner suddenly 
remembers the love-tie between them, reminds them 
about it, sings to them about it, uses brass bands about 
it, until the poor wretches forget about the bathtubs, 
and the under-nourished children, and the lawn parties 
they peeped at, in mobs, over high fences; and they’re 
willing to die, in mobs, babbling about love for the 
landowner, for if they are not willing, they’re called 
traitors, and everything is in such a hurry, brass bands 
playing in a hurry, people marching in a hurry, loving 
the landowner in a hurry, that it’s easy to forget about 
the bathtubs and the high fences. But some day, the 
man in the street won’t forget; he is going to stand 
still and say, like Louis: ‘L’etat, c’est moi!” 

“Enter the socialist!” beamed Fackenthal. 

Jepson’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Say anything de¬ 
cent or just, and somebody’s sure to say: Socialist. 
No one seems to realize the tribute it is to socialism. 
Now, it happens I’m not a socialist, but—” Jepson was 
started. Graeme, listening, forgot that he had in¬ 
tended to remember his thin and shabby clothes, his 
long burial. 

It was wonderful, listening to Jepson, to follow his 
swift, nervous stride around the world, as he pointed 
out ironies, injustices, hypocrisies. It tested his resur¬ 
rection, for that’s what it was, this feeble crawling 


A CLUB DINNER 


7 1 


back to the light, his resurrection, his renaissance. 

One couldn’t understand the allusions if one were 
altogether a dub oneself; couldn’t understand his 
lightning, glancing references if one hadn’t been read¬ 
ing behind that newspaper, and to some account; if one 
hadn’t been doing with a sandwich for lunch so that 
there’d be nearly an hour for reading,—best kind of 
eating, books! 

What wonderful sort of thing was he eating now? 
Steak, but what kind of hybrid? Slit, and stuffed, 
with sweetbreads, that was it, and truffles, with a sug¬ 
gestion of mushrooms. One appreciates this sort of 
thing after going without dinner twice a week. Un¬ 
less one would call a beef sandwich and a glass of ale 
dinner! 

He was missing some of it, of course. But not 
losing much. Listening to Jepson and Fackenthal, 
and seeing too; watching the easy mingling of those 
other men yonder, who look as though they were 
happy at home. With nothing on their minds; as 
though they hadn’t done anything which would scratch 
their name off the roll. Men who earn enough to keep 
their families decently— 

Odd, the sense of heritage coming back to him ! Of 
belonging to this class. This was what he had been 
hungry for. Not the lights, only, nor the satiny linen, 
the softly moving waiters, and the polished silver and 
crystal, though after eight years of Bird Place it was 
balm for his nerves, was like getting a glimpse of 
paradise. But to find himself still a gentleman, in 
spite of Bird Place, holding his own with gentlemen, 
with men like Jepson, knowing Fackenthal isn’t 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


72 

ashamed of him, knowing Jepson hasn’t yet discovered 
what he really is, a rotter, a failure, was a surprise, 
as well as a comfort. He couldn’t have done it last 
year. Couldn’t have appreciated the talk. Last 
year, he would have felt as though drowning, clinging 
every minute to the lifeline. Instead, enjoying him¬ 
self. A darting mind, Jepson’s. Like a juggler who 
can keep track of a half dozen balls. 

He hadn’t forgotten his French, or he’d have lost 
the subtlety of that mot of Jepson’s. But who was 
Masefield? He would have to look him up. 

Jepson began to clear his mind of the Boer War. A 
page of history it was, he declared, which Englishmen 
would have to skip, as a lapse from principle. 

Fackenthal did not agree with him. The war was 
forced on England. “You think England was in the 
wrong in ’76. England was in the same position in 
South Africa that the American colonies had been 
fighting away from. Taxation without representation. 
The South Africans had been coaxing our men to come 
over and help them; to come over and do the things 
they could not do. And when they got there, they 
were told they could not have a voice in the govern¬ 
ment. But their taxes were required, all right!” 

“What did they want to govern that country for?” 
demanded Jepson. “It wasn’t the same situation, at 
all. They were all going back home! They were 
there to make money, ^nd to go home. But the reason 
of the quarrel is not the point. It’s the way England 
took to settle it. I can quarrel with a small boy if 
he’s saucy to me, but I don’t have to club his brains 
out! Not at this period of civilization. We used the 


A CLUB DINNER 


73 

same appeals as though our house were on fire. ‘Re¬ 
member you love me, come and save me!’ ” 

“Did you ever try to argue with a Boer?” began 
Fackenthal. Graeme could see him catch himself up 
sharply. “Well, if you think we’ve passed the war- 
age, you’re mistaken. We are still in the adolescent, 
quarrelsome boy period. Remember how Germany 
evaded all the knotty questions at The Hague?” 

“If it had only been one of her own size, like Ger¬ 
many,” persisted the editor. “Oh, I know, I’m still 
a traitor because I did not shout for England then. 
A man is always a traitor who can see in wartime that 
his country is in the wrong. That’s the sin of war; 
a few people can decide over-night to make millions of 
people traitors unless they pretend to think as they do.” 

“You were a hero at the Cape, Mr. Jepson,” ven¬ 
tured Graeme. 

“Not with Englishmen.” 

“With many Englishmen,” insisted Graeme, feeling 
himself flush under that keen, monocled stare. 

“He was there,” Fackenthal explained. “At the 
end of the trouble, or was it just after, Graeme? He 
was there for the firm.” 

“How long were you there?” 

“Four years,” he answered, and instantly visualized 
Alma, red-jerseyed, hanging over the child’s bed; saw 
their home, their dining-room. If any of those men 
could see him at his own table, wouldn’t they draw the 
caste line? Wouldn’t he, Wade, have done so a few 
years ago, before he knew how such things happen? 
To himself, even, it was a taint, the ugliness of his 
background, the sordid poverty—here, it was hypoc- 


74 THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 

risy, hiding it, denying it, pretending that he was like 
the rest. 

Jepson speaking to him; asking him where he had 
lived. 

“Capetown and the Karroo, and once to the ’Vaal, 
once to Johannesberg.” The last words were forced. 
That was the trip he had called his honeymoon. Be¬ 
fore he made it. But never since. 

“What was the feeling out there? Was Bryce fair? 
You’ve read Bryce?” 

Concentrating that sharp, monocled stare on him, as 
though it really mattered whether he thought Bryce 
were fair! 

Graeme hesitated. “Yes, in a way. But you can’t 
get much personal feeling in a chronicle like that. No 
passions. And there was plenty of passion, pressed 
down, out of sight. Some Englishmen who lived out 
there took it as a personal grief, a personal dishonour. 
I wonder if you ever happened to run across a book 
called: ‘Smythe’s Diary’? That’s where you get the 
passion. He served, did Smythe. Takes courage to 
oppose your country, away from home, in a time like 
that.” 

“At home, too. It takes something which feels 
mightily like courage. It’s like swimming against a 
strong current, against the current of the ages. The 
passion war evokes is atavistic.” 

“There was Ffoulkes.” Funny to want to talk. 
And to men like Jepson and Fackenthal. To have 
them listening to you, fixedly listening. Jepson who 
doesn’t know you are a dub, a clerk in a rut. 


A CLUB DINNER 


75. 


“He owned more flocks on the Karroo than any 
other man on the Cape. We bought from him, the 
company did. He ran a paper, too, a weekly. He 
told the truth in it, as he saw it, he stood up for the 
dogged, trekking Boers. He was called a traitor. 
Yet he was the most ardent patriot I ever met. He 
had a big ideal for England. He lost his paper, of 
course; lost his friends. It isn’t safe to be a friend 
of a man like that. His wife couldn’t stand it, and she 
went back home. He spent every shilling he had, fight¬ 
ing the current, resisting. He’s out there now, watch¬ 
ing sheep. All he has left, his flocks. I think of him 
often, at night, watching his sheep. His friends who 
went with the current, with Power, making money, and 
out of the Boers! If the Boers remember the man 
who stood up for them, that’s all they do for Ffoulkes, 
alone out there, under the stars, watching his sheep!” 

“A good story, human story. I wish you’d feel like 
writing it up sometime, Mr. Graeme. Say what you 
think; for the Globe’s free. The Globe is the stars, 
or the sheep, for this Ffoulkes, for Jepson. My 
Karroo. Hated, the Globe f but free, thank God!” 

Graeme could feel himself growing, swelling. 
Asked to write for the Globe! Most wonderful thing 
that had ever happened to him. Asked to write! 
Would he! 

First time his experience had come to him in the 
light of an asset. He’d grown bitter about the Cape. 
Nothing had been right since then. Yet here he was 
worth something to Jepson just because he’d been 
there. Maybe to others, then? To Fackenthal? 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


76 

Opens a door, that thought! Of course, to Facken- 
thal, if he’d let himself open out; grow. He’d been 
asleep all those eight years! 

Jepson didn’t know his story, didn’t know he had a 
Boer wife. He called them a sullen people, a few 
minutes ago. “Odd people, sternly religious, with all 
the religion left out.” 

Didn’t he, Graeme, know? Old Krieger, the sort 
who’d burn and knife you if you refused to believe in 
the gentle Jesus! Rummy, that sort of religion. 
Alma’s was that sort. She wouldn’t miss church if 
she were so angry with him for being late that she 
wouldn’t speak to him on the way! Said the blessing 
over the food scowling because she hated the one so 
who gave it to her! He couldn’t understand that 
sort of religion. At Wade House, it meant a type or 
kind of living, of high, gracious and serene living; 
principle turned into daily action, into self control. 

He’d often watched Alma at such times, wondering. 
Watching her listening with grim shut lips and lowering 
lids while the preacher talked of love and mercy to 
one’s neighbour. Who did she think was her neigh¬ 
bour? A husband then not a neighbour? He must 
break this habit of thinking so hard; thinking so hard 
that he forgot to put an oar of speech into the talking 
current, once in a while! 

Jepson and Fackenthal were talking of plays. He 
couldn’t put an oar in then. It was beyond his depth. 
When had he seen a play? Not since he’d left Lon¬ 
don. If he should go to a theatre, he’d drop on his 
knees, thinking he were in church. For he had to go 


A CLUB DINNER 


77 


to church; uncomfortable at home if he didn’t. Not 
that he was afraid of Alma, but he liked things to be 
pleasant. 

When one comes to think of it, his life wasn’t much 
better than Ffoulkes’. Ffoulkes whose wife had left 
him to ride day and night over the lonely Karroo. 
Well, hadn’t Alma? If he weren’t riding alone, he’d 
like to know who was under God Almighty’s stars! 

If religion were true, real, wouldn’t it guide people 
to live right? Would it leave Alma on the fringe, 
hating him, hating her neighbours., the shop-keepers? 
If it were true, wouldn’t it give a few friends to 
Ffoulkes who had tried to see straight, who had 
wanted his nation to be a gentleman? Wouldn’t it 
guide patriotism, keeping it fine, even if not gentle? 
What is patriotism, when all’s said, but an idol, unless 
your nation commands not only your passion but re¬ 
spect? Unless it acts at least as well as the way it 
makes you act. What was patriotism, way back, but 
the worship of a national God? My God. God for 
Israel, and just for Israel! 

Have we got much farther? “Love those inside of 
a boundary line!’’ when war’s going on. That’s 
nationalism today. It’s expanded egotism. You 
can’t put a fence around God, and expect people with 
brains in their skulls to believe in your godliness. He 
was writing his Globe stuff already! He hadn’t 
written for ten years, and here were his fingers itch¬ 
ing for a pencil because Jepson of the Globe thinks he 
can write a story! He wished he could cut now. He 
had to get his thoughts to paper. 


78 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


He listened, pretended to listen to the talk about 
drama. He discovered, a few minutes later, as though 
suddenly, that it was late. 

“It’s never late,” Jepson squinted up at him through 
his monocle. “Unless one is bored. No one is bored. 
Therefore, it’s not late.” 

“I live—far out. I’ve had a wonderful evening, 
Mr. Fackenthal. I’m going to take you at your word, 
Mr. Jepson!” 

He got past the other tables without every one turn¬ 
ing to stare at him; the outsider, trying to feel like 
somebody, like somebody in a hurry. Some one helped 
him into his old coat, respectfully, as though it were 
the right cut, pretending that his arm had caught on a 
button when both of them knew it had slipped into the 
torn lining. What did it matter after an evening—like 
Surrey, like old times. And asked to write for the 
Globe! 

He determined to make notes on the way home, to 
get down some of the story which had been crowding 
in on his mind ever since Jepson had suggested his 
writing for the Globe. Quivering as a captured butter¬ 
fly, it was now, before being secured to the page! It 
would be ruined if he carried it home like that! It 
burned gas, to work at home, annoying Alma, whereas 
at the office—great idea, the new room at the office! 

So one of the seven millions again, buffeting with 
the other six million nine hundred and ninety-nine 
thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine! Jepson had 
put his finger on the sore. Runts of men. Lets ’em 
be runts. Did England know that he, Wade Graeme, 
existed except when he forgot to pay his taxes? 


A CLUB DINNER 


79 


Walking so fast towards the office, he ran into a 
woman who was turning the corner, and knocked her 
bag from her hand. He got a stare of rage from her 
when he restored the imitation leather horror to her, 
saying that he was sorry. A big, brawny woman, she 
was; wonder she didn’t bowl him over! She was worth 
something to her country, or should be, and it tells 
her to shut up asking for a vote; to pay her taxes and 
keep her mouth shut. That’s why she stared at him 
in a rage, a runt of a man who can vote. They are 
like that, the women of the London streets. He’d 
seen them in crowds, pressed back by the London po¬ 
lice, and pressing up again like the invincible tides of 
the ocean. What was England going to do about it? 
Find more of those splendid police fellows? Keep 
on saying: “Shut up, and love me bye and bye when I 
need you!” 

He must find out what they were all saying about 
it, the women, the socialists, the people of the basement 
meetings. Must find out where they were, the meetz 
ings of the discontents. He must find out what they 
were thinking; what they thought the trouble was, and 
what the cure. 

The office building was dark. The stairs and land¬ 
ings dark. No one there but the night watchman, 
who watched him climbing the stairs. The newly in¬ 
stalled electric switch at the outer office door released 
a flood of light. He went into the rest room, promis¬ 
ing himself an hour. It wouldn’t do to go home later 
than twelve, even after a dinner with his employer. 

It wasn’t like writing. Just being borne along; 
mind running away with his pencil. A flood of eager, 


8o 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


frenzied words! When the hour was up, he yearned 
to wait and read it, but he had to be starting home. 
It wouldn’t be pleasant, going home later. 

He stood up, stretching his cramped muscles. It 
was a jolly little room; he had an affection for it. It 
was like a home, the right kind of a home. Helped 
one to write, somehow, the comfort of it, the quiet, 
the shaded lights, and knowing no one was listening 
overhead. It surprised him to find how much he had 
written. All those sheets covered! 

Life opening up! If he could write for the Globe! 

He went to his desk, putting the notes carefully 
away. The roses were drooping. He replenished the 
water, and stood looking at them for awhile. 

In the tube he made more notes. 

Not Hoxton Square so soon? 

Counting again. Two hundred and sixty to her 
house. If it were not for the habit, he'd stop count¬ 
ing. Something told him now when he reached her 
house. Window boxes up there? He’d never seen 
them before. Something new. Of course, she’d have 
to have flowers. 

It would look like any other house, like all the 
rest of the hundred and sixty, unless you knew; had 
seen that room of roses, had seen her. Perhaps other 
women have a room of roses, maybe those angry-faced 
London women have one in their souls somewhere, 
kept out of sight, but opening up to something, a child, 
for instance. 

Sleeping up there, Isabel! 

A book agent. He had never had a chance to get 
her book back to her, or to tell her how she had helped 


A CLUB DINNER 


81 


him. Like a man drowning in mid-ocean, clinging to 
a raft, fingers stiffening. Nothing but the fear in those 
fingers to keep him from the black depths below. 
Just a matter of time when his clutch would slip, and 
then those dark depths. When a light flared over the 
water. Said a ship was coming, help was coming. 
Do you bless that light? Don’t you bless it? Feel 
like saying your prayers to it? 

Rummy were he found there, staring up at her win¬ 
dow! Didn’t that curtain move up yonder? His 
eyes were tricking him. That house was as still as 
the rest of Hoxton Square. 

Entering his own hall. Getting back into his rut. 
A rustling upstairs? Stillness only, a graveyard still¬ 
ness. It was the echo of his own shoes he’d heard. 
Not right to disturb them because he’d been having a 
good time! He took off his shoes. 

Tiptoeing, then, feeling his way in the dark so that 
he would not run into a chair the child might have left 
in the way; creeping up the stairs, shoes in hand, guid¬ 
ing himself by the rail with the other. Listening every 
minute to hear if Alma were moving; listening for her 
voice to demand what time it was, and where had he 
been all that time ? 

Creeping like a burglar up his own stairs! Not 
because he was afraid of her, but because he disliked 
scenes! 

Undressing in the dark, grimly careful that nothing 
fell out of his pockets, or that his watchchain did not 
clink against his watch. Crawling into bed beside 
her— Not quite sure that she was asleep. Perhaps 
she was smiling in the dark at his caution! 


82 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


Then wanting to turn in bed, but not wanting to. 
Not afraid, but not wanting to. Listening acutely to 
her regular breathing. Surely, she must be asleep. 
It was safe to turn now, wishing as he turned, slowly, 
that he had a room of his own. 

How many hundred nights since he came to Lon¬ 
don had he wished that he had a room of his own? 
The child had. He’d suggested, once, moving the crib 
in here, and buying another bed. But he never tried 
that again. Queer, she didn’t want it, too. Queer, 
that despising him, she didn’t want it. 

If you are poor, that is what marriage means. 
Never again a room alone; no meals alone, only a few 
meals alone. No hole on earth to call your own. 
What relation could stand it? Not even love could 
stand it—and when it’s hatred— 

We live too close, in cities, like London. Poverty, 
the crowd system, huddling, it’s all wrong—it makes 
life that should be sweet, hateful. You can’t live with 
seven millions, and expect a room by yourself, if 
you’re one of the failures. 

Jolly, wide spaces on the Karroo, that was living; 
having room to breathe. Ffoulkes not so badly off, 
after all. Having room to breathe. Not having to 
live with the woman who hated him. 

Riding. Riding. With Jepson. No, with Fack- 
enthal. Riding down Fleet street, on ’busses, crowded 
’busses. 

Streams of ’busses. Rivers of ’busses. A sea; a 
sea of angry faces. Wondering what you have done 
to them to make them all look like that! Crowds of 
faces, angry,—then wanting to turn—and then,— 
roses! 



CHAPTER VIII 


ON A PICCADILLY ’BUS 

H E wakened with a novel sense of beginnings; 

of opportunity crossing his path. A momen¬ 
tous thing had happened last night. Would 
that chance have come to him if he had not been 
prodding himself out of his rut these last few months? 

It began that night in the fog; a girl and her book 
had started it. He had been in the fog; a long time 
in the fog; since then as though the sun were trying 
to break through! Even that wonderful accident of 
the rest room coinciding with his feeble efforts—place 
for a muscle bound man to creep to, to limber up the 
ligaments of his soul. 

Then she looked at him. Though his eyes were 
shut, he knew the instant she looked at him. It was 
the way she held her breath for that second of reali¬ 
zation, remembering the stranger who was lying by 
her side. Watching her, wondering if he were really 
asleep— 

He always knew when she stopped sleeping, before 
she moved or yawned. Her breathing then was heavy, 
as though she were working hard in her sleep. But 
she didn’t snore. He was grateful to her for that. 
It was bad enough to be wakened many times during 
the night by the child’s sturdy snorting. He often 

wondered if all children breathe as though over a 

83 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


84 

grater, as through a megaphone. He didn’t dare sug¬ 
gest adenoids any more to Alma, it would bring tears; 
he would be told that he hated the child and that little 
Alma was all right, and just like other children; that 
she didn’t need his interference. Poor little Alma! 

He had long ago learned to keep his eyes closed 
when his wife wakened, to evade that shock of meeting 
glances, of appraising dislike. He could never grow 
callous to that scorch of humiliation,—lying by the side 
of one who hated him, accusing eyes surveying him! 
It degraded him for the day. The only way he could 
get through with it each morning was by pretending to 
be asleep. 

If you keep your eyes closed while she drags herself 
up sighing, it isn’t quite so bad. Even though you 
know she’s there all the time, and she knows that you 
are awake, and only shamming sleep, it isn’t so dread¬ 
ful as your eyes meeting with a shock of sense and 
shame. Easier to keep them shut when she sits on 
your bed, on your feet if you’ve not slipped them 
quietly away. 

She always sits on the bed while she pulls her 
stockings on; and shakes the bed, always shakes the 
bed. If he ever found himself in jail, it would be be¬ 
cause of that helpless rage which shook him when 
Alma sat on his feet and dragged her stockings on. 
He hated her, then. There! He had known it 
would come, that feeling, some day. Revulsion, for a 
long time, revulsion, rage. But, hatred, that debases 
and enslaves one. And here it was, mastering him— 

Sitting at table with her, twice a day; having her sit 
on the bed while she puts her stockings on; lying by 


ON A PICCADILLY ’BUS 


85 

her side because they were too poor to have different 
rooms—what a half-man he was to endure it! For the 
lack of a little money, having to accept the soul-de¬ 
basing humiliation! 

He would earn enough to live as he wanted to. He 
would write for Jepson; he knew that he could. This 
shame, the hate would drive him to it. He would 
earn more money. If he couldn’t earn it by writing, 
he would find another way. If money was the key 
which would open the door to freedom, he would find 
a way to earn it. A poor scrub to sit down and accept 
his slavery, his prison walls, if all he needed was a 
key! 

Maybe extra work at night for the firm. Then he 
could buy another bed; yes, and another dresser. 
He would have a place for his own things. Not 
one drawer for him, and the other for Alma, that 
terrible married way! Always finding her things 
getting into his drawer by mistake, or because hers 
was crowded with little Alma’s belongings. Finding 
flannel skirts with your collars, frightful flannel shirts, 
or dreadful knitted ones. Makes your soul creep. 
Just because you are too poor to get her decent ones. 
That’s the answer to that. Though his mother was 
poor, their last years together, and she never wore 
things like that. If Alma would only stop shaking 
the bed! 

She shuffled into the bathroom in her heelless bed¬ 
room slippers, and his fascinated hate followed her, 
visualizing the unloveliness of her morning prepara¬ 
tions. He knew when she was mopping her face; he 
could hear her using her toothbrush as though she 


86 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


were angry because she had to; could hear her 
coughing, her minute of morning cough; clearing her 
throat, and coughing again. 

Hatred! 

He could hear her shuffling back, and made his sus¬ 
pended breath regular again. He did not have to 
watch her to know just how she looked as she pulled 
off her coarse gown and began putting on, one by one, 
her ugly day clothes. He used to stare at her, hypno¬ 
tized, before he learned the trick of pretending to be 
asleep. Used to watch her as she combed and brushed 
her thin wisps of hair, fiercely, as though they had 
done her an injury, and this berating were a reprisal. 
It used to hold him, awe-struck, watching her yank it all 
back from her face, squeezing it hard, in chastisement, 
screwing it into a tight, round knot. Like the London 
women, the ones you meet in the tube. You don’t 
have to look to know just how she does it. 

And then, at last, going. Ready, at length, and 
going downstairs. Thirty-five minutes after leaving 
the topstairs, breakfast would be on the table. Thirty- 
five minutes if the stove works all right, before the 
coffee would be done, and the porridge they always 
must have because they lived on Bird Place; because 
he was a dub. 

Five minutes for a shave; five for a tub; ten to dress 
in, which leaves fifteen minutes to lie still and gather 
the courage needed to bring him to the breakfast table. 
Fifteen minutes to think, this morning, of his story. 

It had seemed good to him, last night, as it came 
convulsively to life. Perhaps in the pitiless light of 
detachment, of later criticism, he’d find it was trump- 


ON A PICCADILLY ’BUS 


87 

ery. He knew the disillusionment which awaited him. 
He could remember the dismay of his student days 
when he re-read something he’d thought inspired. 

But even if faulty, things which are torn from you 
like that, which pour themselves out, as it were, are 
apt to have some life, some spirit. A spark in stuff 
which comes glowing from the furnace, passionate and 
incandescent. If the spark is there, it’s worth being 
beaten into shape, blacksmithwise. He was willing to 
labour over it, again and again. Until Jepson was 
pleased; until he liked it well enough to give it space 
in the Globe. 

For he couldn’t go on like this. Curious, how one 
goes on, day after day, year after year, and then 
something happens, a little thing, maybe, nothing one 
can put a finger on, something which happens in one’s 
soul, and it’s all different afterwards; has to be. Be¬ 
cause one cannot any longer endure the old ways, and 
live. 

He was going to earn more money. Money to put 
away; his own. Soul money. Money to grow on; to 
grow free on. 

Breakfast was not so fierce an ordeal as usual that 
morning because he had a plan to engross him. He 
did not glance up at Alma to see if she were more 
than usually angry when she thumped his porridge 
bowl in front of him. It surprised him to find that 
he did not care if she were angry. Distrust of his 
evening’s work was disturbing him. He was wonder¬ 
ing if he had forgotten to say this; or that. It 
did not bother him that the toast was charred; the 
toast was always more or less burned. Alma, he 


88 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


thought, liked it that way. Vaguely conscious that 
she was staring at him curiously, that she followed 
him into the hall, and watched him from the parlour 
window. He saw the shades move. This, too, was 
different. But he had no time to think about it. He 
had some notes to jot down, once in the tube— 

There was a blockade in the tube. After a short 
wait, he crawled out, and made his way through the 
crowd to the street where everybody was wanting 
’busses. Every one in London seemed to want the 
’bus that went down Fleet Street. 

By the time he reached the office, his five minutes 
were gone, the five minutes which belonged to him. 
As he entered the vestibule, his watch told him that he 
was now the property of Knight, Fackenthal and Com¬ 
pany, and there was no time to glance at his manu¬ 
script. Until twelve o’clock, he did not belong to him¬ 
self. Not that any one had ever told the employes 
that they could not take the time to read the stories 
they had written the night before, but no one thinks 
of doing it, in a machine. Men come in; do their 
work; eat; work again, and go home. Their margins 
only belong to themselves, unless indeed they belong 
to some angry disappointed woman at home. And 
out on leash during their margins, able to move only 
so far from the office, leaving time to get back. 
That’s business. Fackenthal, he knew, did his best to 
oil with graciousness the routine. The rest room, for 
instance, and the decent air he’d given the other offices, 
but time—oh, that’s different, when you’re part of a 
machine. 

When it was twelve o’clock, Graeme slammed his 


ON A PICCADILLY ’BUS 


89 

desk with a thud. Thousands of other clerks, all over 
London, were shutting down their desks at the same 
minute. The machinery of the City would be quiet 
for an hour. Men’s margin. His story, tucked in 
an inner pocket now, would soon be telling him if it 
w T ere good enough for the Globe; good enough for 
Mr. Jepson. 

He had decided, earlier, to run around the corner 
to a little eating house where he could get a sandwich. 
He would bring it back to the rest room, and there 
read his story between bites. 

He glanced in the room as he passed. A few of 
the other clerks had had the same plan. They were 
opening up sandwiches made at home. One man, 
Gryce, waved a sandwich at him. “Come along!’’ 

Graeme made a gesture of empty hands and fled. 

He changed his plan. He would take a table at 
the far end of the crowded room, always crowded in 
that cheap joint, his chair backing on the mob, and 
would read his story there. He walked up Fetter 
Lane, and was standing at the corner of Fleet Street 
waiting for a jam of ’busses to pass, when something 
pulled his glance. On the upper deck of the ’bus, 
smiling at him, Isabel! Isabel on the upper deck of 
that ’bus— 

He slid between the ’busses, and grabbed at the 
hand rail as the ’bus was lunging off. 

Watching every day for a chance like this, and he 
almost let it pass him! Mooning over his foolish 
story, and Isabel smiling down at him. The chance 
to tell her about her book— 

She had seen him board the ’bus, and was waiting 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


90 

for him, looking around for him when his head ap¬ 
peared above the stairs. She moved to make room 
for him as he approached her. 

Not greeting her. Just looking at her. Matching 
memory with reality. As lovely, in broad daylight, 
as among her roses. At last, Isabel! 

“Funny, isn’t it,” she said, “living on the same 
square, and never meeting. And then, here, the two 
of us, out of how many millions is it, seven? meeting 
in Fleet Street!” 

“I belong here.” He waved vaguely over his 
shoulder, still staring at her. “That’s my roost.” 

“Oh where? I want to see it.” 

“You can’t see it now. Third floor, middle of the 
square. Fackenthal, Knight and Company, Ltd. 
Wool and Goat’s Hair!” He felt himself colouring 
with pleasure because she wanted to see the place where 
he worked. 

“Do you often pass here, on Fleet Street?” Stam¬ 
mering, losing his words because he was think’ng 
others so vigorously; thinking: How pretty you are 
with the sun shining on your upturned face! Soft, 
and eager and gentle with the breeze the ’bus is making, 
playing with your hair! 

Then he wondered why she was flushing. Because 
he was staring at her; staring like a buffoon. 

“I love to ride on the tops of ’busses; to see people 
swarming like bees. For all the world like bees. 
Lunchtime is my chance. I have to be at home, 
getting dinner, when the crowd swarms again. But 
London, going out to lunch! It’s an experience, 
isn’t it? Or do you get used to it?” 


ON A PICCADILLY ’BUS 


9i 

He hadn’t thought much about it, that way, as being 
an experience, or a sensation. (Tender, even, about 
crowds!) But of course, when one comes to think of 
it, it is. “Do you see poetry in that, too?” 

“I find it when I look for it.” And then they both 
fell suddenly silent; wondering if each were thinking 
the same thing? For what was there to say? For 
those two people to say? 

You don’t blossom into instant speech with the per¬ 
son you’ve been deeply brooding over, though you 
have been watching for the chance, and though your 
mind is stored with things to tell her. For you 
haven’t tabulated those items! You tabulate unim¬ 
portant things all day for Fackenthal, Knight and 
Company, but not the things you want to tell Isabel. 
Having met her only once, having thrust yourself up¬ 
on her like a thief run to cover in the London streets; 
when you’ve found yourself taking her part against her 
own husband, entering into a play against him, and 
when everything that’s happened since you met 
her happened because you did meet her, why there 
is so much to say that you sit and watch her, 
dumb, your mind bursting with crowding, chaotic 
thoughts. 

“I’d be afraid of it, if I did not make myself re¬ 
member all of the time that I’m part of it, and like 
it.” She turned to look down at the people jostling 
eath other in their hurry to get the first ’bus up, or the 
first ’bus down. People thinking that that was their 
’bus, and finding out it wasn’t, because others got 
there first. 

It came to him, as she kept her face averted, that 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


92 

she had turned from the steadiness of his stare. It 
was raw to stare at her like that. 

He wondered what ’bus it was they were on. And 
where they were going. Those people down there, 
all wanting to get somewhere in a hurry made him 
wonder about themselves. He hadn’t looked to see. 
Had just jumped on when he saw her up there smiling. 
They were getting close to the Strand now. He 
couldn’t go far, he must remember, for he had to get 
back. He could keep on going till twelve-thirty— 
that was the end of his leash. As for his story, it 
could wait for a day. And he could go without lunch. 

He’d missed a few of those pretty, straying words 
of hers while her head was turned from him. It made 
him think of music, her voice. English, her words, 
but the voice wasn’t English. Shouldn’t wonder if 
there were some Italian blood there; those soft, dark 
eyes of hers! Or Spanish, but he thought it wasn’t 
that. She wasn’t the languorous type. Poetic, ro¬ 
mantic, maybe, but energetic and vigorous. 

“I like to see it all, as a panorama, the same morn¬ 
ing, Bird Place—it’s drab, isn’t it?—and the women 
shopping in Whitechapel, and the other kind shopping 
in Regent Street. Just as busy living as if many of 
them were not going to have to die to-morrow, have 
to be run over by a ’bus, maybe. And then 
streams of ’busses—you know how they look when 
they come pouring over Ludgate Hill? And all the 
little clerks coming out for their lunch. Then after 
that, on to Hyde Park, to see the ones who have 
their feet on the others’ shoulders. Some one said, 


ON A PICCADILLY ’BUS 


93 


somewhere, that immortality was invented in order to 
give the mob the hope of putting its feet on the others’ 
shoulders!” 

Hyde Park. That was where they were heading. 
But he didn’t care where they were going, as long as 
he was going with her. He liked to hear her talk. 
He didn’t want her to stop, so he could have more to 
think of, at night, behind his paper. It would all 
come back to him, then, what she had said about im¬ 
mortality, and other people’s shoulders, and about 
being afraid of the crowd. 

She broke off abruptly. She was saying something 
about Hyde Park. 

“Do you know, I don’t know your name? It 
sounds abrupt, talking to you, and not knowing your 
name.” 

He said it was Graeme; spelt without the H, Wade 
Graeme. 

She repeated it after him, Wade Graeme. It was 
pretty, the way she said it, her head tilted like a spar¬ 
row’s, looking up at him. He might make something 
of that name if there were a woman saying it to him 
once in a while, saying it like that, as though he were 
not a bleak failure. Not such a bad name, Wade 
Graeme. 

“Mine is Isabel. Isabel Blood.” 

He knew it was Isabel, the part which belonged to 
her. The rest belonged to that bland, thickset brute, 
and didn’t matter. 

She was still soberly looking at him. “I’ve often 
wondered what you made out of it, that night?” 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


94 

He said, slowly, that he had often wanted since to 
tell her what he had made out of it, that night! But 
he knew she did not catch his full meaning. 

“It was so foolish of me. My taking you for a—” 

“Pigeon.” 

“And talking to you like that, a stranger. I don’t 
talk to strangers. Just as though we had known each 
other.” 

“And not talk to each other, like that!” he 
dared. 

She met bravely the daring in his eyes. Odd, how 
strong he felt when he w T as with her; different; capable; 
as though he amounted for something. He hadn’t 
felt strong, or courageous, for many a year. That was 
the worst of it, of his life, knowing Alma thought him 
contemptible and mean. A man wants to feel strong. 
He liked to recall that he had protected her, that 
night, that he hadn’t been a duffer, before Isabel; when 
her spirit had appealed to him, it hadn’t found him 
wanting. 

Ignorant, he had been of what he ought to do, and 
yet it wasn't badly done, after all, being done on the 
instant. At any rate, she hadn’t been offended with 
him, or she wouldn’t be sitting there, so friendly, 
smiling at him, letting him hold her gaze. Gratitude, 
being liked, being believed in, makes a man want to be 
better and bigger, makes him therefore both better and 
bigger. 

“I've often wanted to tell you what it meant to 
me," he repeated. For he wanted her to know this. 
It was like a debt to be paid, this thing he had to say. 
“I was in a rut. I’d stopped growing, or caring about 


ON A PICCADILLY ’BUS 


95 

growing. I’d stopped reading, long before that I 
had stopped reading.” 

Surprise widened her eyes. “You mean —I helped? 
How could I help?” 

“I’d forgotten, or else I didn’t know that there 
were roses in London, poetry. I’d got to be a ma¬ 
chine.” 

Her eyes were not brown! He had never seen eyes 
like that! Grey, he thought, with a bronze veil. 
Brilliant eyes, yet soft. Give's a jolly, stirred up 
feeling when she looks at one. A funny little way of 
using them. Looks at one direct; questioning, bal¬ 
ancing what one is saying, not like doubting, but 
thinking of the thing that lies back of what one is 
saying. Her eyes don’t wander. It’s as though one’s 
thought met hers while the eyes are wondering, com¬ 
passionately, if there are no roses in her neighbour’s 
house ? 

Smiling! 

Of course, smiling. He wanted to smile, too, re¬ 
membering why he had to carry off her book. Got 
out by pretending to be a peddler. She was thinking 
of that, too. 

“I have wondered how to get it back to you.” 

“I wish,” she began, and stopped, then made a fresh 
start. “It would be better if you would keep it.” 

Afraid it might be remembered? He was keen, 
about little things? He checked up, did he? “Then 
I’ll have to owe you another book. Later on. When 
I find one that hits me.” 

“Did this one hit you?” Smiling again, Isabel! 

“It changed London to me. That’s what you mean, 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


9 6 

isn't it, discovering that you’re not outside the seven 
millions, looking on, detached, different. That’s what 
it did for me, gave me my relationship. Put me into 
the seven millions as one of the units.” 

“Oh, more than a unit. A factor!” 

Nice little way she had of finishing a thought, of 
clinching it. Nothing more to say afterwards. A 
trick, it is, being able to say things like that, a gift. 
His mother used to say he had it. He wondered if 
he had quite lost it, if one ever quite loses it. 

With dismay, he saw her gathering up purse and um¬ 
brella. 

“Getting off here? I thought you were going to 
Hyde Park.” 

“Not today. There’s an errand I promised to 
attend to. In Bond Street. I came out for that.” 

“But where in the world,” stumbled Graeme, des¬ 
perately, holding out his hand as though to stay her, 
“where in the world shall I ever see you again? To 
give you that book? Lunchtime? I’m one of those 
little clerks—” 

Her eyes laughed joyously into his. “Hertford 
House? I'm often at Hertford House. I love to 
go there.” 

He had to let her go. But not until she told him 
when he could meet her again. 

“At lunchtime ?” he insisted. Still blocking her 
way, although the ’bus was slowing down, and she had 
to get on, downstairs. He had to see her again. 
Monstrous, not to see her again! 

“les,” said Isabel, and then he had to let her go, 
for the ’bus was stopping. 


ON A PICCADILLY ’BUS 


97 


He had made her lose her crossing. The ’bus 
started before she reached the top of the stairs. She 
was lost to his sight until the ’bus disgorged her at the 
next street. He watched her pick her way through 
the two opposing streams on Bond Street, wondering 
as he watched what the errand was that she had to 
fulfill. For her husband, for the flashy, fat bounder. 
She said she had promised. His eyes followed her 
until the two streams engulfed her. 

He rode on, thinking about her, and her errand, re¬ 
membering the things she had said to him, the direct 
way she had of looking at one, when he realized sud¬ 
denly that he w r as riding away from Fleet street, from 
lunch, and now that she was gone, for no reason. He 
bolted down the steps, and swung off the ’bus, just 
making one that was going in the direction of Lud- 
gate Hill. 

Time enough yet to read his story, and get a bite 
of lunch before one o’clock. He was thinking of 
Hertford House. He wondered why. At lunchtime. 
With a book for her. Masefield? That was the 
chap they were talking of last night at the club. He 
would look up Masefield in the library. And he won¬ 
dered again why she particularly “loved” Hertford 
House. 

At Fleet Street again, and only twelve-thirty. A 
table in the corner, empty, as he’d planned, and the 
Cape Story in his pocket. Wishing that she were 
sitting opposite. Wishing he could try it on her. 

The edge of the writing adventure had been turned, 
he found. He kept thinking of a pair of grey-brown 
eyes. The way they looked at him as though re- 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


98 

specting him, as though he were somebody, not a 
failure. By Jove, and he is going to be somebody! 
And this is the way to get there. So wake up, Wade 
Graeme, and get into your story. Back to your life¬ 
line. 

It was a relief to find that his story flowed swiftly, 
like a river in haste to reach the sea. Plenty of rough 
bits; but boiling over the rocks, in a hurry to get its 
journey done. 

Most people write as if they wanted everyone to 
remember that they are sitting at a desk, with lots of 
time to spend writing for folks who have lots of time 
to spare. But there is no time nowadays. It is all 
used up before one begins the day. Every one’s in a 
hurry. In the tube, and afraid to get whisked past 
the station, or in a hurry at the restaurant, for the 
office is waiting. Books being printed every minute. 
Newspapers every second. Millions of books to be 
read. The British Museum Library to be read 
through before one dies, and being added to every 
day. People used to be willing to dawdle through 
volumes of words. But that was before books were 
being printed every minute— 

If you want to be read, Wade Graeme, read and not 
skipped, you’ve got to promise on your first page that 
you're going to get somewhere soon. That in about 
three hundred pages you promise to get your 
passengers there, journey all done, and all talking 
about it finished. You’ve got to give them confidence 
that you can do it, too, or they’ll get another driver. 
Set the pace at the start, and keep it up. 

See what the moving picture is doing to the drama. 


ON A PICCADILLY ’BUS 


99 


Jepson spoke of that last night. It had given him 
a hint about writing. The same people who go to the 
pictures are reading the books, aren’t they? If you 
want that kind of people to read your books, you’ve 
got to get their confidence. They are not willing to 
waste time, for there’s a good picture around the 
corner, a new book just out— 

Faulty, ragged places this “story” had, but because 
he had dashed it off at white heat, he had achieved, he 
believed, a forceful, vigorous style. Not forced, but 
hurried. His way out, thank God! 

Thank Isabel! 


CHAPTER IX 


THE WAY OUT 

O NCE embarked on his trail caravel, new worlds 
opened up to him. So many places beckoning 
at once! So many lures to follow! Ideas 
which might vanish like smoke if he did not utilize the 
flame. Unrelated subjects; suggestions which carried 
him away from the Globe article. And he told him¬ 
self, sternly, that he would not be carried away. For 
that was his immediate life-boat. 

His story seemed at first too full; he had written 
impetuously, without restraint. As he rewrote it, it 
split up into several articles. He found he could not 
hold it all. And he reached the place when it was too 
thin— How much life has to go into a short talk 
about it! The thing became weighted again. And 
he began to prune. 

He was a week cutting before he found that mere 
amputation would not do. He had clipped here, and 
chopped there, until the story was the desired length, 
but still there was something wrong with it. Time 
was his enemy, the time that belonged to Alma, and to 
Fackenthal, Knight and Company. As soon as he be¬ 
gan, it was time to stop. 

The hour came when he did not know whether it 
were good or hopeless. It became a mass of words, 
the form evading his eye. Deliberately, he turned the 


THE WAY OUT 


IOI 


key upon it. He promised himself that he would not 
look at it for a week. He would think of other 
things; he would write on other subjects, and would 
bring back refreshed eyes which could see it dispassion¬ 
ately. In the meantime, he would rebuild it, in 
skeleton; reorganize it; compare the new form, later, 
with the stuff locked in his desk. 

Again and again, he organized his story, on bits of 
paper, on cards, on the edges of newspapers. He did 
it in the tube, in the ’busses when the hard-faced 
women on the platforms did not demand his seat of 
him. He did it behind his paper while Alma marched 
to and fro in the kitchen, or overhead. It was as ab¬ 
sorbing as a puzzle. At first, his mind was not re¬ 
leased from the written pages in his desk, but at last 
they faded. 

For that w r eek, he did not go to the office at night. 
Alma had become suspicious. She wanted to know if 
it meant extra work, this staying down town; meant 
more money, a raise of salary? Then why did he 
do it? 

Though he reiterated to himself that his soul was 
his own, did he not have to make the motions of 
slavery? Accounting for his time, handing over his 
wages! Though the souls of slaves belong to them¬ 
selves, does that knowledge mitigate the sordid fact 
of slavery? 

It wasn’t pleasant to discover that he was afraid 
of her. He couldn’t deny it any more. No longer 
could he convince himself that his obedience came 
from a dislike of scenes. He was afraid of her tongue 
lashings; he was afraid of her power over him. 


102 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


And she knew her power; his fear was one of her 
assets. He lapsed, that week, into the old servile 
ways. He told himself that there was no use trying 
to force his way out. If he earned more money, she 
would discover and demand it. One couldn’t keep 
anything from her; she ferreted. She worked things 
out by suspicion. “What would I do if I were in his 
place?” Everything around her must become in time 
like her. One gets moulded into shape by her 
distrust. A horse’s gait can be changed by riding 
him. She was riding him. She was changing his 
gait. 

And this was marriage, in a free country. All 
around them, people were living this way. Men and 
women belonging to each other. Belonging means 
slavery, doesn’t it? New thoughts rising within him 
were swelling to waves of revolt. Then it wasn’t a 
free country. He wondered what people were say¬ 
ing about it, other bound people in this free land of 
theirs. What were the writing folk saying about it, 
above a whisper ? 

He was working free of some of his chains. He 
reached a point where he could think consecutively, 
without allowing entrance to black, accusing thoughts, 
while Alma tramped about, overhead. He felt he 
was getting a fresh squint on the Globe story. And 
pretended he was callous to Alma’s stare when he told 
her that he would have to stay down town that eve¬ 
ning. 

The pages in the desk were not so bad he found. 
As paragraphs, all right, but the scheme wasn’t right. 
It meant beginning all over again, meant sacrificing a 


THE WAY OUT 


103 

few of his pet paragraphs, meant mechanics, scissors 
and a paste pot. 

H is father’s thin gold watch told him that it was 
midnight when he leaned back in his chair, the puzzle 
put together, the mutilated paragraphs mended. And 
on the way home, in the tube, he discovered the way 
to write a story. Rediscovered the formula. 

He had gone at it the wrong way, hind side first, 
like a drowsy donkey! So afraid he’d been of losing 
the divine fire that he had let it burn him up, instead 
of using it as a torch, conserving its light, letting it 
guide him. Now he could see that a pen’s fluency is 
not spoiled by cold-blooded organization, not if he 
has self control, if it be drilled. A plan first. Then 
letting one’s self go, but not into formlessness. 

He felt equal, now, to write for the Globe, for Jep- 
son, for any one. He had known all this before, 
academically. But one has to discover a fact for one’s 
self in order to make it one’s own. 

He found himself resisting the speed which was 
carrying him home. If he could only find a formula, 
a way to stiffen his resistance without making scenes. 
Now that he knew he was a coward, he couldn’t endure 
it. He couldn’t endure himself. 

A question pulled him up short on Haberdasher 
Street: Why was it he loathed himself when accord¬ 
ing to authority he was doing right? According to 
law, to church rules, according to convention. Except 
for the cherishing, he was keeping his vows. Then 
why in heaven’s name did his conscience accuse him of 
degradation because he went on doing it, standing by? 
Why did he slink before the image of himself? 


104 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


A policeman came up and looked at him curiously. 
Graeme muttered something about having turned his 
ankle, and went on towards Bird Place. 

What, he demanded, is right? And who makes it? 
And what’s more to the point, who unmakes it? 

First, he would finish binding those bleeding para¬ 
graphs together: any one who had been tutored by old 
Throckmorton would be sensitive to a mutilated para¬ 
graph; he would get the story off his mind. And then 
he was going to the library. People are writing about 
everything; some one is surely writing about this 
modern slavery. 

Isabel’s window. 

Isabel, too, belonging to some one. Obeying, being 
shackled. Afraid to buy books, afraid to grow, both 
of them afraid to grow. He was going to find out 
what was the matter with it all. 


CHAPTER X 


THE BRITISH MUSEUM LIBRARY 

T WO days later, he carried his neatly typed 
manuscript to the Globe office. Would he 
trust a precious thing like that to the mails? 
Suppose two, three weeks went by without hearing 
from it, and he would be burning to know about it, 
and reluctant to ask! Grilling just because he had not 
had enough sense to put it safely into the right hands. 
The only certain way was to leave it at the Globe office 
with a personal letter for Mr. Jepson. After he had 
left it with a superior youth in the outer office, he re¬ 
gretted that he had not asked for a receipt. 

Trifling the notions for such a momentous deed! 
There was a consequent sense of freedom altogether 
out of relation to the fact. Turning in a story does 
not mean that it is going to be printed tomorrow, or at 
all. Yet it might be the key to that locked door which 
guards music, poetry, advancement, in short,— 
freedom. It was like buying a lottery ticket, leaving 
a manuscript to be read. 

With these thoughts warming his mind, Graeme 
sauntered down the Strand. Leisurely, as though 
time were his own. The level sunset light brightened 
the faces of the men and women in the opposing cur¬ 
rent. Something was giving them an eager expression, 

was it hurry, to get somewhere, or the thought of 

105 


106 THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 

getting home? He himself was not going home; not 
so soon. Not this night! He was going to celebrate 
the turning in of his first manuscript,—the first one of 
this sober, mature period. 

He was on his way to the British Museum. If 
there were any books analyzing the paradox we call 
marriage they would be in that library. But first, he 
was going to have dinner. Not a sandwich and a 
glass of ale, but dinner, in some cheap, decent place. 
He had enough tucked away to have a gentleman’s 
dinner, if he wanted it badly enough, but it wasn’t 
food he was yearning for. He wasn’t going to eat 
up the precious savings that stood for abridged 
lunches. Every shilling counted; a nestegg for his 
freedom. He was going to buy a book for Isabel, 
though. He wanted to do that. Wasn’t that part 
of his freedom, being able to do something for her 
without accounting for it? Ought to think of her as 
Mrs. Blood. She was that to other people. To him 
she was Isabel, the girl of the fog and the roses. 

A wonderful sensation, sauntering down the Strand, 
the yellow light of the late sun greeting you, not twit- 
ting you that you are going to be late again for dinner! 
And having left your last story at the Globe! At 
Mr. Jepson’s request, if you please ! No presumptuous, 
unsolicited venture this. Not like one of the mob 
knocking at the back door. Yours the inside track, 
Wade Graeme’s! Not because of yourself, but be¬ 
cause the family had been the right sort, because Fack- 
enthal was a family friend of long standing, and in a 
way a friend of your own through a mutual regard for 
proud traditions. 


THE BRITISH MUSEUM LIBRARY 107 

Like having old family silver; getting thin and worn 
at the edges, but standing for something, which new 
money can’t buy. Like belonging to an exclusive club. 
If he ever got his foot on the lowest rung of the ladder 
he was going to build, it would be because of the 
mother who had given him the right to start, the right 
background as well. . His father hadn’t helped him. 
He was lazy, and impractical, selfish. Facts spoke. 
Nobody had to tell him. Neither her husband or her 
son had ever repaid her unselfishness. It wasn’t fair. 
It could never be made up to her. Anything he would 
do now would be for himself. No use trying to delude 
himself by a mushy pretence of wanting to be worthy 
of her. Self preservation, that was the sum of it. 
Too late for anything else. 

Life seemed to be opening up to him, as spring comes 
to a winter-locked world. Even the sun was trying to 
be kind; after its day of sulks, coming out of the clouds 
to bid a shame-faced good-night to folks! Admitting 
that spring was indeed on its way, and that it might 
therefore be in a decent mood tomorrow! 

He paused before an eating house he had not 
patronized since his return from the Cape. He used 
to meet his old acquaintances there. That was why 
he had avoided it, he couldn’t keep up with those 
fellows without playing the bounder, the sycophant. 

Following the impulse for celebration, he ordered a 
kidney stew for which it used to be famous, and a glass 
of ale. It was a dish he never got at home, at Alma’s 
home. Used to have it at Wade House, for Sunday 
breakfast. How the flavour of the sherry and the 
minced parsley brought back the breakfast room, the 


io8 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


pentagonal window with the bed of ivy below! 
Flowers on the table, always flowers on Mary 
Graeme’s table; gleaming linen and shining silver, and 
his mother’s face opposite, smiling at him! The 
French windows to the north, opening on the lawn, 
his dogs frolicking there. The sweet, planned se¬ 
quence of flowers, bulbs, lilacs, roses, stocks, gera¬ 
niums, chrysanthemums; a faithful calendar her gar¬ 
den was! 

The graciousness of life, that was what he was 
hungry for, roses draping the poverty. He needed 
that almost as much as being believed in. 

After an unhurried dinner, he looked up the books 
on marriage. He discovered that hundreds of un¬ 
happily married people—for if you’re happy you don’t 
bother about it, do you, take the time away from it to 
write about it?—were spilling over into ink and paper. 
It was amazing, and rather overwhelming. France 
and Germany had a good deal to say about it. 

He did not know where to begin. He plunged, 
choosing names which pleased him, or had some mean¬ 
ing for him. An astonishing melee of disillusionment. 
He would be ready to die before he got through read¬ 
ing, before he had discovered which was wrong, law 
or instinct. What did he want to know particularly? 
He must lesson that habit of diving into midstream. 
He should organize his curiosity— 

Marriage in England? Pretty general, and dull, 
but he supposed he should read at least one such sur¬ 
vey. Marriage a Sacrament. Surely that! Mar¬ 
riage Laws? 

A bored looking young woman at the desk had ac- 


THE BRITISH MUSEUM LIBRARY 109 

cumulated another dozen or so more books for him, 
books he had requested. After an hour's delving, he 
was convinced that he was still attacking the subject 
in the wrong way. What he was searching for was 
some light on the failures; why people want to crawl 
out of it, and can’t; or why they don't want to crawl 
out. He wondered if it were not Divorce he should 
be pursuing? 

Not that he was contemplating that solution for 
himself. Nothing Alma had done had given him 
cause, for divorce in England. Marriage is holy, 
even if it’s a failure— 

Funny, one finds out about it, after one’s in. If 
one were going into business, one studies the business, 
prepares for it. If one plans incorporation, one finds 
out about corporation laws. One tumbles into mar¬ 
riage, w T hich is final, the only final institution, which is 
so holy that one has to sin to get out of it, but if the 
other party to the bargain sins too, then neither can 
get out of it. Logical? Reasonable? Must be, or 
England wouldn’t pay a man to resist all claims for 
divorce. He approached the bored custodian of books 
with a list of imposing names on Divorce. 

It was ten o’clock before he had compiled a list of 
books which he was going to try to find in the other 
library, nearer the office. Laws on Divorce. Laws 
on Marriage. It wasn’t what he wanted, but he was 
going to begin at the foundation. He wanted to know 
why one loses his freedom. Has it always been right, 
slavery, is it always going to be? Who are the rebels, 
and what is their creed? He was still on the wrong 
track. 


1 10 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


He would have to appeal again to that superior 
young person with the paper cuffs pinned over her 
sleeves. And what was he going to ask her? 

As to the decent revolters? No need to ask about 
the other kind: any one who lived with eyes half open 
knows about the other kind, pretenders and victims. 
He felt a little shy about going back to her. He must 
have a reason for his persistence. Once, at a moment’s 
notice, he had been a book agent. Well, he would be 
a reporter now. 

He returned his load of books. “I’m afraid these 
won’t do. I’m a reporter. I’ve a divorce story to do, 
and want to get a background for the case, historical; 
much at sea, I’m afraid. These are some of the 
points. Can you help me?” 

Her first glance at him was reproachful. As though 
intimating that a newspaper man ought to know just 
what he wanted. She looked at the card neatly tabu¬ 
lated by one who had spent years tabulating. He 
saw a gleam of interest creep into her dark eyes. 

“Of course, you’ve read Shaw. There’s a new 
book that will help you, rather new. Not only on 
your subject. The author discusses marriage from a 
new viewpoint. He gives a good bibliography, too. 
You will find there all the references you need.” She 
swept up his discards, and placed them on the wheeled 
table behind her. “You did get into deep water!” 

She seemed human; no longer the automaton. She 
was gone several minutes. Graeme was watching the 
other patrons of the library. She brought back one 
fat volume. 


THE BRITISH MUSEUM LIBRARY 


111 


“I’ll make out a list for you tomorrow, if this won’t 
do. But I’m sure it is what you want.” 

Graeme was sorry, but he couldn’t come back to¬ 
morrow ! 

Of course, if he were a reporter, he wanted his in¬ 
formation at once. “Going to stay late?” she in¬ 
quired. 

“Rather late.” 

“If you come back in an hour, I’ll try to have it 
ready then.” 

Because of all the trouble he had given her, he went 
back for her list. But it was not necessary. That 
fellow who had written The Ways of Men had 
promised already to give him what he was after. Not 
drily or statistically, not as twaddle, dogma, or proph¬ 
esy. He gave facts; the evolution of the institu¬ 
tion he traced, giving dispassionately its virtues and 
drawbacks, its limitation. He approached the sub¬ 
ject of the relationship of man and wife as he treated 
other relationships, scientifically. 

Graeme told himself that if he could not find this 
book in the circulating library on the Strand, he 
would buy it. This man was going to tell him why 
marriage had become the thing it was. 

The librarian was no longer bored; she showed an 
interest in the reporter who was floundering in his 
deep waters. She asked which paper he wrote for. 
Shamelessly, he acknowledged the Globe. 

“If it’s decent, I’ll bring it to you.” He put care¬ 
fully away in his notebook the list she had made for 
him, and made his way out into the street. 


I 12 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


The sky was bright with stars; frosty stars. It had 
turned colder. It would probably snow before morn- 
ing. 

As he left Haberdasher Street, he saw a light in 
one of the houses in the square. An upper window. 
Near his own house. He thought that it might be 
Isabel, reading late. As he drew near, he was sur¬ 
prised to find that the light came from his own house. 
Perhaps little Alma were ailing again. Would Alma 
take it into her head to wait up for him? 

As he let himself into his hall, he could hear her step, 
on the floor above, hurrying. She did not hear, or did 
not stop to challenge the opening door. Graeme 
stood for a moment deliberating. 

It was late to read, and he was tired. It was un¬ 
pleasant to go up before she was asleep, or at least 
pretending to be asleep. He went into the dreary 
parlour, and turned on the regulated burner. 

The light was reflected from something bright in 
the window corner. A stick, a gold-topped walking 
stick. He picked it up and examined it. Smooth, 
high-polished, the gold top flashily engraved. It 
looked like the Cape. Some one from the Cape had 
been there to see him? Or to see Alma. Why not to 
see Alma ? 

The newspaper that night did not hold his attention. 
He was wondering who had been there. In most 
houses, men and women come freely to exchange 
friendly gossip and news. But no one ever came to 
his house. Alma did not like it. Not for many years, 
not since their first year there had any one ever come 
to see them. If Alma were awake when he went up 


THE BRITISH MUSEUM LIBRARY 113 

to bed he would ask her—no he would rather ask her 
in the morning! 

It was the sort of stick that man Blood would carry, 
but he wouldn’t come to that house. There was no 
reason. Still, he was curious— 

Presently the noises above died away. He read for 
a while longer, finding himself too sleepy to take in 
what he was reading. Then he looked over the list the 
book guardian had given him. Hard to keep awake 
tonight. He couldn’t stay awake any longer. He 
wished he had a room of his own. 

Trying to walk as though the house belonged to 
him, as though there were no reason why he should 
not be getting home after midnight, he went upstairs. 
Alma was simulating sleep. Pretending that he 
thought she was asleep, he got ready, noiselessly, 
for bed. 

The next morning, while she was at her stockings, it 
occurred to him to ask about the gold-headed cane. 
He opened his eyes, asking her instead if any one had 
been there the evening before? 

“Here?” countered Alma. “Nobody ever comes 
here.” 

Maybe she did not know that the stick had been 
left. He did not want to catch her in a story, or seem 
to be spying. She did not want him to know that any 
one had been there. 

“Did you expect any one? Why should any one 
come: 

He said, that he did not expect any one. No, there 
was no reason why any one should come. 

“It did not seem likely that you expected any one 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


114 

to come and see you here when you said that you had 
to stay down, to work,” accented Alma. 

“I saw your light. It was burning when I came 
home.” 

He thought that she looked confused. It was only 
for a second. “The child was restless,” she said. “I 
had to get up to quiet her.” 

No evasion. A deliberate lie. For hadn’t he 
heard her walking around the room, with her shoes 
on? She did not put her shoes on when she got up to 
quiet little Alma. Some one had been there, and she 
did not want him to know. That was her right, to 
have guests, friends, even if she chose to lie about it. 
He wouldn’t be curious, even, if the idea of Blood had 
not come into his head. 

He listened after her as she went down the stairs. 
As he knew she would, she went directly to the parlour. 
He heard her crossing the room, and then standing 
there, looking about her, walking over to the window, 
and picking up the walking-stick and wondering if he 
had also discovered it. 

He heard her move on to the dining-room, and into 
the kitchen. Then came the unholy racket of the 
kitchen stove. 

When he went down twenty minutes later, the stick 
had disappeared. Alma told him that she was sorry 
the toast was burned. And was the coffee too strong? 

Fancy Alma saying she was sorry about anything! 
or even mentioning the burnt toast! 

Thoughtfully, he went off to the day’s work, passing 
the Bloods’ house without an upward glance. Several 
times during the day he thought of the stick. 


CHAPTER XI 


HERTFORD HOUSE 

T HREE times during the following week, 
Graeme went prowling through the rooms at 
Hertford House, foregoing his lunch in the 
hope of meeting Isabel. Twice he risked being late 
at the office, waiting and searching for her, vainly. 
He knew that she would come when she could. It 
did not occur to him to doubt her, or to suspect 
coquetry. The third day, just as he was beginning to 
despair, to realize that he might go there five days out 
of six, to miss her on the sixth, he came upon her, in 
the room of the Murillos. 

She was leaning over a railing when he caught his 
first glimpse of her, not looking at pictures, her gaze in¬ 
tent on a French table, or on one of the objects ex¬ 
hibited there. He stood for a minute, watching her. 

What was it that was so fine, so special about her? 
Gentleness? Not humility. The gentleness that 
fears to wound people, gentleness that would enfold a 
city waif. He wanted to stand there, watching her; 
cataloguing all the delicious little charms of face and 
feature: the way she carried her head, a special distinc¬ 
tion, the way she carried her head; the soft flying 
colour in her cheeks; the way the hair grew around 
ears and brows ever so slightly waving. Then the 

way she had of looking at things, just as she looked at 

115 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


116 

people, as if demanding the whole of their meaning. 
That was her personal note, he thought. He had 
never seen any one who looked tensely, yet gently, the 
way Isabel did. He could watch her all day, dis¬ 
covering new charms, daintiness of touch, the soft way 
she breathed, but his time was flying; and he wanted 
to talk with her. 

He came up behind her. “I’ve been wondering 
what it is that absorbs you so?” 

Joy ran into her eyes. They betrayed her. They 
told him how glad she was to see him, that she, also, 
had been despairing of meeting him; told him what a 
lonely child it was! Childish she looked that minute, 
confessedly, openly glad! 

It was wonderful to discover her pleasure. He 
had been counting over their meetings, as a miser his 
coins; it had not occurred to him that she, too, was 
valuing them; that she, too, w T as starving! 

Her eyes had to fall at last before his. “It's my 
game,” she confessed. “I always play it here, and at 
the museum. I won’t look at catalogues until I 
make up my mind what things are. I look at the fur¬ 
niture, and say: ‘Yes, this is Quatorze.' Or this— 
‘Seized ” 

“And it is.” 

“Yes! Almost always! I don’t know why. But 
I am going to know. That’s what I’m trying to find 
out, now, why I know. I’m going to begin to study 
historic furniture, to know why I know, what are the 
exact differences.” 

“You’re sort of a witch, aren’t you? A sixth 
sense.” Such a lonely life, hers. Playing games with 


HERTFORD HOUSE 


1 17 

herself, and with her roses; with the furniture which 
had been the properties of kings and queens ! 

“It’s a sense, or sympathy, a person has for certain 
things, the things they like, isn’t it?” Wonderful to 
have any one who looked like Isabel appeal to you, as 
though you knew something! “Some men, I suppose, 
know guns that way. Some women know clothes, a 
mile off. This year, those shoes; last year, those 
hats. But furniture, French furniture!” She clasped 
her hands in a manner indubitably French. In that 
instant she revealed to him her nationality. 

“You are French?” 

“My mother was. My father was English. I can¬ 
not remember him, I w 7 as so young when he died. I 
suppose it was because of not knowing my father, and 
my mother’s loneliness in the land which was foreign 
to her, that made me feel French. Though I have 
lived in England all my life. To mother, the English 
were always strangers. We always had a few French 
friends, until we moved to Annersley. I am related 
more to a land I have never seen, to France, to its 
music, its literature, its furniture, than to the England 
I know. I love everything that is French.” 

“French plays?” he suggested, to bring that flash 
again into her eyes. 

She did not answer at once. Then she said she did 
not often get to a play. Once she had seen Bern¬ 
hardt. Oh, she would never forget that wonderful 
time. Bernhardt in L’Aiglon. She had forgotten to 
breathe. But what did Mr. Graeme think about it. 
Was it so wrong to want to see an actress like Bern¬ 
hardt? 


118 THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 

“Do we go to see the woman? Isn't it the actress 
we go to see? I have never bothered about that. 
I've seen her only twice, but that's because I can’t 
afford to go to the theatre,” acknowledged Graeme. 

It sounded stupid, and vulgar, his confession. 
Why he should want her to know the truth about him¬ 
self, that he was poor, he could not explain then to 
himself. Only that the wish was there, that she 
should know the truth about himself. Only a com¬ 
mon little clerk. He had tried to impress that upon 
her the day in the 'bus. But her eyes, her manner, in¬ 
sisted upon deferring to him, as though paying him a 
subtle sort of respect; as if she thought he were a per¬ 
son of importance. He wasn't anything, unless it were 
a failure, an ordinary clerk. 

On the brink of a talk with her, the first real talk 
they had had, and he had to pull out his watch to 
measure his leash; to see if it were time to be turning 
into a machine again. 

“Shall we walk through?" she asked him. “There 
are good things here. Quite as good as the Louvre, 
Mother used to say.” 

He knew that, today! He had been reading up 
since his last talk with her. He had been to Hertford 
House many a time, but without establishing a 
personal relation. He had had to turn to guidebooks 
to find out why she loved it. “He would have thought 
she would like the Turners of the National Gallery, 
and the Rossettis." 

“I do like them. But I love this,” explained Isabel. 
“I belong to this.” 

They looked at French furniture for a few 


HERTFORD HOUSE 


1 19 

minutes, bending together over the intriguing descrip¬ 
tions. Graeme looked again at his watch. 

“I have to go," he blurted. “I'm late now. And 
this is the third time I've been here, hoping to find 
you. Can't you, would you be willing to say which 
day you will be coming back? So that I will not miss 
you? I’ve only an hour at lunchtime. Sounds as 
though I were a rotter, asking you !’’ 

She did not answer at once, and he was afraid that 
he had offended her. 

“I suppose you are very busy? That it is hard to 
get away?" 

"Oh, it isn't that. I’m not busy. I’ve only two 
meals to get. I make my own clothes, and my hats; 
and I read, and walk in the park, and sometimes ride 
in the busses. But I have oceans of time left, 
always," exclaimed Isabel. 

“Then can't you? We've always met like this. 
Just beginnings. I'd like to have you show me Hert¬ 
ford House." 

“I'd love to. All my discoveries !" 

“When?" demanded Graeme. “Tomorrow?" 

“Tomorrow? Oh, not tomorrow !" 

“You just said that you were never busy," per¬ 
sisted Graeme, wondering meanwhile at his own 
daring. But if there were a chance to see her to¬ 
morrow, he was going to force that chance, that was 
certain. 

“I’m not, but,’*— 

“There is no but. I'm going to be here tomorrow. 
And if you are not here, I'm coming back the next day, 
and the next. And I ought to be— 


120 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


“Ought to be—what?” And her intent gaze was 
turned full upon him. 

“I’ll tell you what I ought to be doing, tomorrow!” 

Just like a boy he felt; joyous and prankish. She 
made him feel that way. She threw him back into his 
youth. “Say tomorrow!” 

And Isabel said: “Tomorrow!” 

He tore himself away from her. Strangely excited 
and elated. Tomorrow! Going to see her again to¬ 
morrow. To talk with her, to tell her about his writ¬ 
ing; about his dreams. Of daring to begin over 
again; at his age, as though young. Because she had 
given him courage. Afterwards, if there were time, 
she would show him her treasures. But there was 
plenty of time ahead of them, days to be good to them. 

They were going to talk tomorrow! 


CHAPTER XII 


LILAC-TIME IN LONDON 

N EVER had it taken today so long to turn into 
tomorrow! The afternoon dragged as 
though weighted, the evening hours at home 
carried chains. He pretended to read behind his 
paper, pretended to himself he was reading. When 
he discovered he did not remember a word he had read, 
he faced the self-deception, and abandoned the pre¬ 
tence, letting his mind rove among the things they 
would discuss the next day: his debt to her; his ambi¬ 
tion; and how sorely he still needed help. 

To find out, too, if he could without wounding her, 
or without giving her the wrong impression of his 
friendliness, if there were not some way he might re¬ 
pay her, if he might not be of some service to her. 
He could not speak of her loneliness unless she 
acknowledged it. But she was lonely, she had be¬ 
trayed that, inadvertently, he felt sure. Surely, there 
must be something he could do for her! 

Though they had not agreed as to the place of 
meeting, he took it for granted that it would be in the 
same place, in the room of the Murillos. He had 
hurried off, without asking her, knowing he was going 
to be several minutes late at the office. 

He found her there, near the Murillo, looking at 

her furniture, but listlessly, he thought. Her interest 

121 


122 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


seemed divided. He could see her turning to look at 
the people who passed. The welcome she gave him 
was genuine enough! It ran to meet him. She was 
lonely, all right, Isabel was! 

There were not many people in the rooms through 
which he had passed, all but the guards beginning to 
think of luncheon, and hurrying past, and out. Two 
women were standing in front of the Murillo, close 
to Isabel. Because of them, he walked up to her, 
greeting her as an old friend whom he had not expected 
to meet, and shaking hands with her. The first time 
he had shaken hands with her. Nice, cosy sort of 
habit it is! 

“Can’t we sit down for a few minutes?” he urged. 
And when they were seated: “Before you begin to 
educate me! Time runs away so fast when I am with 
you. I wonder would you mind not looking at furni¬ 
ture today?” 

He remembered afterwards how soberly she had 
looked from him to the Holy Family, and then back 
to him again. Without speaking; the gentle, penetrat¬ 
ing glance upon him, waiting. 

“We can’t pretend we are like other people, can 
we?” It was the beginning he had planned behind 
his newspaper the evening before while Alma was 
marching about overhead. But he had not dreamed 
that it would cost such a physical effort. His face 
turned blood red. He felt as though he had been 
drinking. Surely, she would think he had been drink¬ 
ing. It was as though all the blood in his body were 
in his face. His heart thumped disagreeably. It 
was, he told himself, because he had lost the knack of 


LILAC-TIME IN LONDON 


123 

talking about himself. Not since his pre-adolescent 
days, when he came to think of it, had he talked to any 
one about himself. He’d shut up, then, even to his 
mother. He had never had occasion since to open up 
to any one. Like other people? Surely, he wasn’t. 
His habits had made a prisoner of him. 

Her eyes were questioning him, but not challenging 
his route. 

It was sweet of her not to notice his embarrassment. 
It ought to give him the will to go on with it. He 
wasn’t prepared for this astounding confusion which 
was shackling his tongue. Here he was, sitting beside 
her, this his yearned for opportunity, and he was 
dumb, palsied. No experience at the Cape, in 
London, helped him to measure it. It was like his 
boyish agonies in Surrey, when a roomful of people 
looked at him to hear what he was saying, and then 
paralyzed with self-consciousness! But it wasn’t that 
now. He didn’t want her to misunderstand him— 

“We didn’t even meet the way other people do.” 
This he planned to say, but why? Then what? 

“I’ve thought of that,” she responded, with a little 
rush of eagerness. “I’ve often thought of that.” 

If she had often thought of it, then she would surely 
understand what he was trying to say. 

“My life has been different, I think, from other 
men’s. You were telling me yesterday about yours, 
different, too, I think. Mine, for years it has been 
grey. Like a stone wall I could not see through, and 
hadn’t the grit to climb over. I had given up trying. 
Until the night I met you. That night, I can’t tell you 
what it meant to me, for I can’t make you see what I 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


124 

had got to be. I don’t want you to misunderstand 
me— I’m so afraid you are going to misunderstand 
me!” For it seemed to him then that her eyes were 
asking him something, imploring him not to say any¬ 
thing which would spoil it all, which would make it 
difficult for her to meet him again. 

“Other people would misunderstand,” he stumbled. 
“But with us, it’s different.” He saw the beseeching 
look pass from her eyes. “I’d got into ruts. I was 
just a routine man. Oh, it was all my own fault. I’m 
not blaming any one, because I had given up trying to 
see through the wall, too big an ass to remember I 
could climb over it.” 

“And you are—fighting now, again.” Not asking 
him, but stating it. 

“Yes, I’m fighting. What you said, what your 
book said to me, too, it all started the old thoughts 
and dreams stirring. I began to think I might yet do 
the things I had once hoped to do. To be the man I 
wanted to be. I believe it is not too late.” 

“It’s never too late,” breathed the girl, her hands 
clasped tight together. “It’s never too late.” 

“You saved me. I’ve been wanting to tell you this, 
when I had time, so you wouldn’t misunderstand me. 
Not since my mother died had anything wakened me. 
I was walking in my sleep. You make me think of 
her. Though you are so French, as I can see now, 
yet you always make me think of her, of Surrey morn¬ 
ings, spring mornings when the lilacs are coming 
out—” 

“They are coming out now,” she reminded him. 

“Yes, in Surrey!” And then he told her, still halt- 


LILAC-TIME IN LONDON 125 

ingly, so long since he had poured out himself to any 
one, of Jepson and his offer; of the story he had 
written—she knew, didn’t she, that the newspapers 
call an article a “story”? And did she know what it 
would mean to him if he could write well enough for 
the Globe? And he thought that he had done it. 
And if he had, it was her work, not his. 

“I’m so proud!” she cried. “But I don’t deserve it, 
the credit. It was just an accident. It would have 
happened anyway.” 

He could not tell her the whole of it, why it would 
not have happened, anyway. Not of the dreariness 
of his home; that would drag in Alma, he wasn’t going 
to drag in Alma. He couldn’t even tell her of the 
help the room at the office had been, what that had 
meant to him. That would confess the sordid ugli¬ 
ness of his home, would accuse Alma— 

“No,” he denied. “It wouldn’t have happened any¬ 
way. And then, I had been rebelling at Bird Place. 
It stood for the failure I was,” he had pulled himself 
back just in time from saying “all the mistakes I had 
made.” “It was the prison I had built for myself, and 
for my—family. It’s my—cage.” His rueful smile 
asked pardon for his poor little joke. “But the other 
night, I realized—I was going home late, after a won¬ 
derful time in the library, an orgy of books, you know 
the feeling?” 

Oh, yes, she knew that feeling! 

“It rushed over me as I turned into our street that 
it was Our street. That if I had never gone to the 
Cape—” he stopped, aghast. He had not meant to 
say that. “If I had not gone to Bird Place after 


126 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


coming back from the Cape, I meant, that Ed never 
have met you. And I was glad—for the first time—” 

“Are you?” she asked. “Are you?” 

Graeme had gone white. His excitement had 
passed, his flurry. He had said what he wanted to 
say to her. And she had not misunderstood him. 
“Glad—thankful to be there, because you are there, 
while you are there.” 

Oh, she would be there. She would always be there ! 

“Is it possible for a man and a woman to keep a 
friendship, like this? Is there anyway I could do any¬ 
thing for you—too?” 

“When you get to be a great writer, and you can 
still tell me that it was I who helped you, why you 
couldn’t do anything bigger for me!” she exclaimed. 

He could not suggest that she was not happy, that 
perhaps she really needed help, the kind of spur she 
had given to him; courage, perhaps, or companionship, 
once in a long time, a wonderful time of talking things 
over together? How could he say it? That if she 
wanted his help, needed him, as book agent, or chim¬ 
ney-sweep, he would always be ready, eager! It was 
stupid to be sitting there, saying nothing, thinking it, 
and afraid to say it, and the hour nearly gone. Time 
to be thinking of wool and goat’s hair again! He 
would have to let the broken sentence hang. 

“Will you show me the furniture, and the pictures— 
tomorrow?” 

“Not tomorrow.” 

“The day after?” 

She shook her head. Not in words did she tell him 
that they mustn’t begin to meet, often, like this, that 


LILAC-TIME IN LONDON 


127 


it mustn’t seem to be what it wasn’t, this wintry little 
friendship of theirs, but that was what her mind was 
saying to his, what her expression was telling him. 
Neither did he tell her that he wouldn’t keep it up, 
this rapid sort of pace—but that he had to tell her all 
this, didn’t he? And she was to have shown him her 
treasures—afterwards, after the next time, they would 
meet once in a long while, but she knew; Isabel of 
course, knew! 

“The day after,” he urged audaciously. 

“That is Saturday. I really work on Saturday, get¬ 
ting ready for Sunday. He doesn’t like me to work 
on Sundays.” 

Monday, he had to admit, was a bad day for him. 
So much to do at the office on Monday, because of the 
half day lost Saturday, and then Sunday in between. 
Could it be Tuesday? 

Isabel agreed at last to Tuesday, and held out a 
shy, friendly hand to him. 

Holding her hand in his! Such a slender hand! 
Queer thrills it gave him, holding her hand in his! 
Nothing of the mushy sort, but the way good Catholics 
must feel when they touch the robe of the Virgin. 
Not that other sort of feeling. He had told her it 
was nothing like that. Both of them finished, as far 
as that sort of sentiment went. A different kind of 
friendship they had to have, Isabel Blood and Wade 
Graeme. Two families, two pledges in between. 

Standing and looking at her, and holding her hand. 
Then letting it go, and still looking at her. Going 
away slowly. Very slowly. Leaving her among her 
beloved French tables and chairs. 


128 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


It had been sprinkling when he went into Hertford 
House. As he emerged, the clouds were breaking, 
trying to let a pale, timid sun work its way through. 

A woman with a basket of flowers on her shawled 
arm thrust her wares at him. 

“Lilacs? Only sixpence. Lilacs?” 

Lilac-time in London. Lilac-time in London! 


CHAPTER XIII 


THE SINGING ORGAN 

T HINKING of rituals. What had started him 
thinking of rituals? Because it was Sunday, 
and in a few hours they would be starting to 
church? Breakfast was always later on Sundays; it 
meant a longer time pretending to be asleep, a longer 
time to think. 

Thinking of Surrey and of home rituals; his mother 
had made a festival of every anniversary: Christmas, 
Easter-day, the blossoming of the first fruit trees, the 
first snow-storm! She was a home maker, was Mary 
Graeme. 

That was why the naked ugliness of his own home 
smote him afresh each day. Here every day was 
alike, Easter like any other Sunday, Christmas meaning 
perhaps a better dinner, but not a merrier, prettier one. 
Couldn’t he remember how his mother used to turn 
into celebration the first narcissus which broke through 
its sheath? Narcissus in a blue bowl, being greeted 
as though they were dear friends, come back again! 
Roses, after, in the peachblow vase which he remem¬ 
bered from earliest childhood; that the rite belonging 
to June, the month of roses. Then the coming of 
the snow and a to-do over the getting out of the big 

boots and the mufflers; a fern put into the shining 

129 


I 3° 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


brass bowl for the flowerless months, and watching 
the fronds work their way up! 

If one is trained to love such ceremonials, not hav¬ 
ing them hurts; and how can one have them if just the 
talk about having them raises such a nasty scene? 
When bringing home a fern in a bowl makes talk that 
outlasts the poor, little discredited plant? 

The first strawberries in Surrey! Not only a feast, 
but a celebration. Even the daily salad at Wade 
House was given its ritual. The dignity she used to 
give it! He could see the polished shining leaves, ice- 
crisped, in the silver bowl which had regaled many a 
generation of Wades with refreshment far less inno¬ 
cent than salad. Her silver tray always intriguing 
interest, with its complete furnishings of vinegar and 
oil bottles, sauces and mustards, catsups and relishes 
that one might choose his variation of dressing. Other 
bowls, filled with sliced tomatoes, or chopped green 
peppers, or perhaps minced onions, or cross sections 
of hard-boiled eggs. He used to love to watch his 
mother's white, patrician fingers journeying from dish 
to dish, manipulating the carved wooden salad set 
which a friend had brought her from Switzerland. 
Cosmopolitan, she used to say, smiling at him, cosmo¬ 
politan, the salad course. The oil from Italy, the let¬ 
tuce from their home garden whence came also the 
herbs, thyme, marjoram, parsley and sage; the toma¬ 
toes and peppers from France, and the carved tools 
from Switzerland. 

How much of his early education had he got that 
way, from Mary Graeme who used the simplest, hum¬ 
blest objects as wings to carry them beyond their own 


THE SINGING ORGAN 


I 3 I 

four walls! How he adored her then, how he wor¬ 
shipped her as a wise, tender spirit, now! If he had 
a child, a child that could accept training, he would 
want to help it, lead it, follow it, just that patient, 
daily way. 

Little Alma, he still believed, could be helped. He 
had been reading about such children; there are ways 
of developing them, special training, but what could 
you do with its mother opposing, no, resenting, every¬ 
thing he tried to do? Misunderstanding what he was 
trying to do. If she understood, if she realized that 
she was doing the child an injustice, if he could prove 
it to her without intimating that little Alma was not 
like other children, something might be done. But 
she refused admission to that thought, passionately she 
repudiated that knowledge. “The child was no differ¬ 
ent; it was simply not strong.” 

For a long time now, he had accused this denied 
bitterness of hers as being the cause of most of their 
troubles. If she could only bring herself to face it, 
let him help her with the sorrow she would not admit, 
it would be like letting fresh air into a room. But he 
had given up trying to open windows; Alma liked them 
closed. 

Way down the street, somewhere, a barrel organ 
was playing. He couldn’t make out the air it was 
playing, though it stirred his pulses, the distant sound 
of it. For Isabel was listening to it, too; lying there, 
listening, and knowing he was thinking the same 
thoughts, about that first night, and the poem. It re¬ 
lated them, brought them closer, that barrel organ did, 
with its vulgar music of the London streets. 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


13 2 

The street player was coming nearer, rapidly. Not 
many people care to be wakened on Sunday morning 
when breakfast is late, and neither office nor school is 
prodding them. Not many pennies being flung out of 
hostile, Sunday windows! 

He could distinguish the tunes now, Italian tunes, 
the over-sweet, languorous ones every one whistles and 
hums through boyhood. Now, an operatic air, florid, 
and then falling to wistfulness. He associated it with 
his youth, with yearning adolescence; he could not 
place it. Something was happening to him, pulling at 
his heartstrings. Sweet, the misery, though, which 
comes from those wheeling tunes! Sweet as the un¬ 
reality of the hopes and fears of youth: just the size 
of seventeen! 

Not such a bad organ. It was one of the new sort 
which suggests a whole orchestra, sounding now like 
voices singing, wildly, terribly sweet. Reminding him 
of all he’d ever hoped to be; of those precious days of 
Surrey which he hadn’t known enough to prize as they 
passed; reminding him of his splendid, silent mother. 
Reminding him of the Surrey Lane where the little 
bunched roses used to grow; of the hedge where he 
once kissed Janice; reminding him—oh God! of the 
ecstasies one innocently, guiltily dreamed, and which 
never come true! Real life, instead, sordid and terri¬ 
ble; no relation to those shining silver wings of hope. 
No one telling him that a boy must be careful not to 
fall into traps. No one telling him how terribly final 
the trap is, the trap that England sets, that England 
guards. Couldn’t help shuddering. Even if Alma 


THE SINGING ORGAN 


i 33 

heard and mocked him, he couldn’t help shuddering. 
Thank God, it was going away! 

Playing as it went that tune that all London had 
been humming: “Just a little love.” Could one live 
without it, without the love of a dog, or a child? 
Even little Alma encouraged to keep away from him: 
“No, you can’t get up until he goes, Alma.” “Don't 
go downstairs; he wants to read,” or “Keep quiet, 
Alma, until he goes. Mother will talk to you, then.” 
Of course, she shrank from him, looking out of her 
mop of hair at him, strangely, fearfully. And a man 
likes children to like him; makes him distrust himself 
to have their distrust. Not even a dog—for Alma 
hated dogs. 

Just a little love! 

Isabel listening, too. Not a stone’s throw away, 
their minds touching, and the whole world between. 

Getting to be a blur of sound, the barrel organ. 
Gone now, thank God! 

He would never forget those few, queer minutes. 
He did not know yet what had happened to him, but he 
would find out later which boundary of his journey he 
had reached. He couldn’t think, couldn’t think it out, 
lying there— 

Without answering, or even listening to Alma’s sur¬ 
prise that he was going in first, he bolted into the bath¬ 
room. He kept the water splashing in the tub to 
drown the memory of “Santa Lucia,” of the “Barca¬ 
rolle.” He went through some of his old setting up 
exercises in order to throw off the despondent languor 
that the music had induced. 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


i34 

Sunday. Another Sunday to live through. Church. 
Dinner. With Alma. And supper. Maybe church 
again. And a long, weary time until it was decent to 
go to sleep again. 

Breakfast was got through, and the bustle of clean¬ 
ing up and getting ready for church submitted to. 
Never before had it so irritated him. Never had her 
air of martyrdom so enraged him. He would have 
enjoyed shutting himself into the kitchen, and making 
the dishes and pans shine from hot water and vigorous 
polishing. He wanted to take a stand against their 
home habits, against her self-martyrdom, against their 
church-going unless there were a churchly spirit. He 
felt like a hypocrite, going to church in this mood— 
Alma and the child fussing; everybody getting in each 
other's way; snarling like angry dogs, and then hushing 
into sullen silence as soon as one reached the street! 

He w r as stalking along by Alma's side, wmndering 
what would happen if he should cut and run; his eyes 
were on the pavement, and he was nursing his revolt, 
when something pulled his gaze, and there, right ahead 
of him, was Isabel, with her husband, that man Blood. 
Going to meet at the corner, face to face, unless he 
manoeuvred and quickly. He couldn’t cut across the 
street without making a row. Alma would want to 
know why— 

The Bloods were crossing to the other side of the 
street; he supposed Isabel had manipulated it. He 
had got, though, the full impact of her shock. He 
had seen her glance fly from him to Alma, and then 
to the pitiful child, with its drooping jaw r — Cad, he 
had been to let his own eyes fall under hers, before 


THE SINGING ORGAN 


i35 

she looked at Alma. She knew now that he was a 
coward; afraid of his wife. It was true. Hadn’t he 
been trying to get the courage to tell Alma that he 
wasn’t going to church with her? To leave her at the 
church steps, running off to one day of freedom? He 
hadn’t the nerve. Because he knew what he would 
hear the day after. Following, like a whipped cur; 
and Isabel now knowing that he was a coward. 

Watching them covertly, under drooping lids, he 
thought that the Bloods were going to the same church. 
His step lagged. He would not meet them on the 
church steps; go up the vestibule, side by side? 

They were outstripping the Graemes, Isabel, he 
could see, a little in advance. It burst on him. She 
did not want him to bow to her. She did not want to 
give Blood a chance to discover that the book agent 
lived in the neighbourhood! Isabel wasn’t thinking 
him a bounder. 

He wanted to suggest to Alma that they go to their 
own church, the low church she liked when they were 
not late in getting started. But it was late; it would 
mean ’bus fares; Alma would argue— 

He could see the usher showing the Bloods to a pew 
when he entered. Alma wanted to go forward, but 
Graeme held back. The choir was entering, so Alma 
could not discuss it. Sullenly, she took a seat in a 
rear pew, the child and Graeme following. 

During the processional, a stranger was shown to 
their pew. Graeme moved gratefully into the aisle, 
giving her his seat next his family. He could watch 
Isabel, if he were not sitting by Alma. 

He had the chance to observe Blood. He was 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


136 

middle-aged; he looked older by daylight; and ob¬ 
viously pious. Genuflecting whenever there was any 
excuse. The sort that likes High Church without 
knowing why. Alma did not like it. She came here 
once in a while only to save carfare. 

Isabel, he noticed, did not genuflect. He speculated 
about her beliefs. Did she come to church because it 
makes the day easier to do as one is expected to do? 
Did she, too, love the human thrill of the organ, re¬ 
spond to the splendid, sonorous syllables of the English 
service ? 

Unintentionally alliterative, that sentence. It 
wasn’t a bad sentence, really. He was acquiring the 
author’s trick of self-conscious sentences. 

How could she help liking the grand old chants 
which for centuries England has been singing up to the 
sky? Singing them to the frowning skies of London; 
to the tented blue of Devonshire and Surrey. “Oh, 
all ye works of the Lord, praise ye the Lord, praise 
him and magnify him for ever!” 

Even if a man is not quite sure of his belief, because 
he wants to be rigidly honest with himself about it, he 
likes to think of them singing it, his own people, mil¬ 
lions of them, each Sunday morning, the whole great 
island singing it: “Oh, all ye works of the Lord, 
praise ye the Lord!” It makes the great hope seem 
true, all of ’em saying together: “We praise thee, oh 
Lord, we acknowledge thee to be the Lord!” 

He believed, all right, that man; Blood. Swallowed 
it whole, as the whale swallowed Jonah. A literalist, 
he’d gamble. See him singing it! Not only believing 
it, but wanting every one to know that he believes it. 


THE SINGING ORGAN 


i37 


Wants every one to see that he knows it so well that 
he doesn’t have to consult a prayerbook or hymnal, 
singing it from memory. 

Not a gentleman, Blood. And yet when one comes 
to analyze it, the difference between the man who is a 
gentleman, and the one who isn’t, is rather subtle. It 
isn’t as if one could put a finger on one screaming fault, 
and say: This bars you out eternally. It’s less obvious 
than that, else Isabel could never have married him. 

All her pretty colour gone today! 

Not one loud mistake to point to; little mistakes, 
many of them, absurd, each in itself, making up the 
indictment; waistcoat a little high-coloured, and yet 
the same stuff perhaps which Fackenthal or Jepson 
might buy; watch chain too broad; wager he wears a 
seal. A big one. A lodge seal. Fellows like that 
always belong to lodges. They go to church on Sun¬ 
days, and to lodge several times a week. Grand¬ 
masters of lodges because they can’t be grandmasters 
of anything else! 

The braid on his frockcoat a trifle too wide; his tie 
too red; the stripes of his trousers too wide, and too 
far apart, for a gentleman. Absurd, but true, all the 
same. No one could mistake him for the right sort, 
because of his taste in stripes. Butchers wear that 
kind; and sometimes the sort of men who like to be 
grandmasters of lodges. 

Looking at him fairly, while he was not bellowing the 
hymns, he was decent enough, as men go; for almost 
any woman but Isabel. But for that girl of sweetness 
and light—it hurt him to think of it. The girl who 
did not want ugliness even underneath her roses! 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


138 

Look at her now, with the painted sunlight staining 
her pretty waving hair ! 

She might be anything. She had the quiet air. Her 
clothes were plain enough for a duchess. He remem¬ 
bered that she told him that she made her own clothes. 
Quiet taste, but not English. A touch that women 
would probably say was French. That woman sitting 
next her, with the brown dress on, blue bat and a red 
feather, could any one hazard her to be French? 

Her hat had roses on it; two deep red roses, growing 
up out of a bed of violets. She would have to put 
poetry into her hats. 

Same church holding the four of them, two couples, 
two pairs of married strangers, praying and singing in 
the church which said it was holy the way they lived! 
Alma hating him; himself hating Alma. Isabel afraid 
of that man in wide stripes; and married to him. And 
they ask you to believe it is holy, not the way you live 
it, but because you live it. 

Not holy. It wasn’t even right. 

He could imagine it holy; with people of the same 
sort. 

Two kinds of marriages. People chained to¬ 
gether, belonging to each other, one kind. 

The other, when minds and souls are related to 
each other. No chains; each loving the other’s lib¬ 
erty. Could it be made practical, meaning, could it 
stand the tests? He thought it could. That writing 
fellow who wrote The Ways of Men thought it could. 
It would entail giving thought to the custom, as a 
custom; studying it; not being afraid to approach it; 
but being willing to investigate it scientifically, as one 


THE SINGING ORGAN 


i39 

would study other human relationships. Fancy, the 
horror that would shake England! 

The crowd, falling on its knees, carried him to his 
praying stool. The choir boys began to move, 
carrying the cross towards the congregation while the 
pious genuflected; the rest gathered up their purses 
and umbrellas. Everybody now in a hurry to get 
home to the Sunday beef or mutton because the ser¬ 
mon had been over-long. 

“What are you rushing so for?” panted Alma, 
catching up to him in the vestibule. “Wait here. I 
want one of those leaflets.” 

He heard Isabel’s voice behind him. He pretended 
not to have understood Alma. He walked straight 
ahead, down the church steps. 

Alma caught up to him, out of breath. She was 
dragging the child whose jaw was sagging. 

“I told you to wait for me.” 

“Oh, did you?” He maintained his brisk pace. 

“You know I did. You don’t want to be seen with 
us. In our shabby clothes. Oh, I know. You’re 
ashamed of us. Afraid some of your grand friends 
might see you.” 

“Don’t scream so.” He was in an agony. He 
thought Isabel and Blood were immediately behind 
them. 

“I’m not screaming. Why are you so particular 
all of a sudden?” 

They had reached the corner. Graeme managed 
a half look over his shoulder. A strange couple 
were behind him. Isabel and Blood were not in 
sight. 


140 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


“Then keep on whatever it is you are doing,” he 
said, suddenly indifferent. 

He caught the edge of the look she threw him. 

After dinner, he escaped. The rest of the after¬ 
noon, he spent on the tops of ’busses, going up and 
down London, crisscrossing London, finding himself 
in unfamiliar sections, not caring where he was going, 
as long as he was in motion. He had to be doing 
something, for bis soul was in a ferment. Thinking 
of the street organ, and the sudden rush of revolt, of 
his inchoate determination that life should be differ¬ 
ent; not knowing how, but knowing it must begin to 
be different; of the meeting on the street; of Isabel’s 
pensive face; of married life in general. He found 
himself scanning the faces of every couple. Married? 
Pretending content with the system? Finding a way 
to make it sweet? 

i 

Coming back from Kew there was an old couple 
sitting in front of him. He bad noticed the old gen¬ 
tleman helping the lady into the ’bus, and up the 
steps. He observed him opening and adjusting her 
sunshade, heard her thanking him. Just as if they 
were not married; friends. Maybe, they were old 
friends. Possibly she was taking him around sight¬ 
seeing, after a long absence. The man looked like 
an army officer. His face and neck were deeply sun- 
scorched, his hair as white as cotton. Just home from 
India, perhaps. 

Graeme was glad his seat was out of hearing dis¬ 
tance. He was going to think of them as husband 
and wife. Wanted to think that two people could en¬ 
dure each other through all the testing intimacy of the 


THE SINGING ORGAN 


141 


subtracting years. He didn’t want to hear her call 
her companion: “Colonel,” or “brother.” It ought 
to be possible for love to survive all the shocks of 
daily disillusionment; no, it should be possible for love 
to suppress them! If the affection is precious enough 
in the beginning to seem worth making a conscious, 
daily effort for, if both want to preserve it; one can 
imagine imagination and patience, thought, self con¬ 
trol applied to the task. Both wanting it hard enough. 

Fine old couple, that. Enjoyed watching them. 
Liking each other better because they had met the 
shocks together. As field comrades who have fought 
against a common foe. Having shared things to¬ 
gether, joys and sorrows, hopes and fears; homely 
problems: the chimney smoking, drains out of order, 
and the maid leaving in a pet; or, “isn’t it time to have 
the living-rooms re-papered?” With roses? 

Nice old married couple. Getting off now, at Picca¬ 
dilly Circus. Going to have dinner together down 
town, for it’s the maid’s Sunday out— 

And having at last to go back to one’s own home! 


CHAPTER XIV 


RECOGNITION 


O N Monday, the Globe printed his story. 

The office knew it before he did. Hobbs 
showed it to him. Hobbs’ manner w T as dif¬ 
ferent. The Globe had thrust the routine clerk into 
a different position, not alone spotlighting Graeme, 
but giving hope, suggesting opportunity to all the rest. 
If the routineer who was willing to let youths outstrip 
him in the office could break into the Globe, why then 
the rest of them could! A new angle was being ap¬ 
plied to the years of brooding: not the daze of failure; 
the abstraction of the scribbler, was it, after all? 

All this, Hobbs’ manner conveyed when he pointed 
out the story to Graeme. What he said was: “I 
didn’t know you were one of us. You must come to 
some of our meetings some night/’ 

He knew he must have looked puzzled, for Hobbs 
added: “Maybe you didn't know you were a social¬ 
ist? Lots of 'em don’t, and wake up full-fledged.” 

Graeme laid the paper on his desk, remarking that 
he wanted to look it over, as soon as he finished this 
column, to see how many ghastly printing mistakes 
had crept in. He knew by the grin on Hobbs’ face 
as he turned away that he was thinking the story 
would be snatched up and read the instant after. 

He did not snatch it up. He let it lie there, still 

142 


RECOGNITION 


i 43 


damp from the presses, under his eyes, with the clerks 
peeping at him every little while. He had his work 
to do. And he had acquired the epicure’s taste for 
reading: time and place right. He liked his table 
spread, as for a ceremonial, the Surrey habit, the 
Wade House habit of life. He hated to have to 
snatch his victuals, as does a dog his ungarnished bone. 
Had he not painfully learned that if one reads a book 
with a sense of guilt or haste, the keen edge of the 
pleasure is turned? The Globe story could wait for 
a leisure moment, for one of those precious periods 
when he belonged, unchallenged, to himself. 

And tomorrow he would take it to Isabel. 

Not such a drab thing, life. 

He took her, also, a volume of Masefield. Had 
he had time to search, he would have found verse 
which would have pleased him more to give her, more 
nearly related to her. He did not know many of the 
new verse-writers, and she knew all the old ones, so 
he bought the Masefield volume on the way to Hert¬ 
ford House. 

She was sitting where he had left her, as though 
she had not moved since then. It occurred to him 
that it is justifiable to sit waiting a half hour or so, if 
before a Murillo. No one challenges you, if it’s a 
Murillo or a Raphael. 

She still wore the pensive expression he had noticed 
in church, and he thought she looked a little more 
dragged. Her face brightened when she spied him. 
She was all eagerness to tell him about his story. She 
had been buying the Globe every day lest she miss his 
article while still quite fresh! Oh, she had known he 


144 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


would do it well, but not as cleverly as that. It 
wasn’t only style, and he had a style, strikingly indi¬ 
vidual, she thought, but it was the conviction with 
which he wrote, the sincerity. She was so proud! 

So she thought, too, that he had a different way of 
saying things? Then it was true, if she with her fine 
discrimination had discovered it. She had more to 
say about it, and he surrendered himself to the sur¬ 
prising joy of the moment. He felt bursting with 
content. Sitting by Isabel, and listening to her praise 
what he had written; answering her questions, her 
acute discernments, saying that “This was a fact.” 
And: “He had seen that happen.” She was giving 
him not only satisfaction with a particular attainment, 
but the stimulus to go on. 

He interrupted her to ask if she were feeling quite 
well? If anything had happened. Questioning the 
pallor of her cheeks. What had happened to the 
pretty lips which were always so vividly, naturally 
red? 

She did not meet his eyes when she said that she was 
quite well. That nothing had happened. 

He watched her. She was looking fagged. For 
the first time, he realized her fragility. Not delicacy, 
maybe, but hers was the delicate type. Such people 
have sometimes a wiry hold on life; but he wished she 
looked heartier. She needed sunshine, this French 
rose. Not London, not the smokes and fogs of Lon¬ 
don. He wondered if that man took the right sort 
of care of her? Wasn’t she reading too much, alone 
too much? He sat waiting for her eyes to turn back 
to his. 


RECOGNITION 


i45 

And the slender, pretty Isabel who needed the sun 
of France or Surrey to shine upon her, at last turned 
her eyes to Graeme’s. They sat staring at each other, 
neither speaking, neither wanting to speak. All the 
things he had been bursting to tell her, all the proud 
joy she had expected to share with him, dropping out 
of sight, forgotten. Minutes passing, all the clocks 
in London ticking time away at a dreadful rate as a 
man and woman sat and stared at each other, life 
never the same again. 

He hadn’t realized it, not fully, not completely. 
Loving her, of course, how could one help loving her, 
the sweetness, the gentleness of her? But this solemn 
way, recognition—why it was as though one had been 
staring for a long time at a face and finds it is one’s 
own, staring at one’s self in a mirror. Unity. Him¬ 
self and Isabel. Thinking the same things, minds of 
one piece, understanding the other, understanding life 
the same way, seeing it as though out of the same win¬ 
dow. That was what his willingness to accept his fate 
meant, accepting Bird Place—Loving Isabel. 

“I lied, didn’t I, when I said it was different, with 
us. I didn’t know, then, on from the first, yes, in a 
way, but not how much it was. I did not know it 
could be this way, that it is true, what poets, the writ¬ 
ing people say about it. Something outside of you, 
bigger than you, inevitable, eternal, explaining every¬ 
thing; completion,” halted Graeme. 

Isabel’s eyes, large and mournful, acknowledged 
that she had been knowing it for some time. He re¬ 
membered her shocked stare of Sunday when she had 
seen him with his family. Strange that they did not 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


146 

doubt one another, having seen the kind of person each 
had chosen to go through life with. Most people 
would not understand. 

Seeing him as a family man, too, must have added 
to her new mournfulness. Though he had never men¬ 
tioned Alma, she knew of course that he was married. 
But seeing people makes them suddenly real. He 
could understand now the look on her face in church— 

He had known he adored her, but loving her,—how 
could any one see her without wanting to be with and 
protect and love her? Some women, the rare sort, 
are like that. But that she loved him, Graeme, the 
automaton, ah, there was the miracle! 

“Is it worse, do you think,” his voice was as low 
as though the room were not empty, and the guard 
three rooms away, “worse than if we had never met, 
not living at Bird Place, I at the Karroo, say, and 
you— 

“At Annersley,” she completed. “No, better than 
that” 

But she said it without eagerness. It was not kind, 
their fate, but it was kinder than that: half lives; 
going through life without knowing that the other 
lived, the twin mind that understands and trusts and 
makes life’s meaning clear! 

It was not going to mean peace for them. He knew 
that. He didn’t have to look at Isabel’s face to know 
what it was going to mean. This wonderful minute 
of his wouldn’t last, this sense of attainment, of thank¬ 
fulness. One doesn’t stand still; just as one article in 
the Globe doesn’t eternally satisfy one; becomes, later 
on, a teasing urge to press on. 


RECOGNITION 


i47 


This moment, though, throbbed with ecstasy. To 
have a woman like Isabel loving him! He knew now 
what adoration was like; he could realize the fervour 
of the worshipful before their carved virgins. It 
was adoration, worship, he felt for Isabel. 

What he saw in her eyes made him feel capable and 
daring, strong enough for any tilt. But one can’t 
prove one’s love by strength or courage these modern 
days. One meets her in an art gallery, and gives her 
a copy of a newspaper, one walks a little slower when 
passing her window at night, and that’s all there is to 
it. One cannot dash into her life and spirit her away 
from her sadness, her loneliness, but he was sure that 
those century or so dead fellows who spilled over into 
sonnets knew no more than he of what worship means. 

He looked at her hand, aching to hold it. In a pub¬ 
lic place like Hertford House, with people apt to 
come in any second, and wanting to hold her hand, to 
stoop and kiss her fingers for the blessing she had 
bestowed upon him, all the starved worship of his 
dreams pressed into her fingers! He let his eyes tell 
her that he wanted to; and then his lips told her: he 
wanted to kiss her fingers; he wanted to kiss the lips 
which had confessed her love for him; he wanted to 
kiss her dear eyes, to kiss them shut, to kiss them open 
again, that he might see that it was no wild dream 
that she loved Wade Graeme! 

A shudder shook her. The terror which ran into 
her eyes chilled him. He demanded: 

“What were they going to do about it? What 
could they do?” 

“Nothing,” she said, assenting to his thought. But 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


148 

her eyes betrayed her. They had told him she could 
not go on with her life, now that she knew . 

He shook himself free from her fear. He had to 
cheer her before he left her. “I have to go, in a 
minute, Isabel, and Eve not told you yet how I am 
needing your help. 1 ’ 

“Oh, I do want to help you! Can’t you tell me 
how? Can’t you wait to tell me?” 

“Won’t you meet me here, again?” He had risen. 
He stood bending over her, subduing his voice, as 
though the room were full of people. “I’ve no more 
time, now,” he added, before she could say that she 
ought not to be meeting him any more. 

“Here?” she debated. 

It was dark in those rooms, and cold. She needed 
all the sun and air she could get. Thoughtless of him 
to expect her to wait in these cold rooms for him. 

“It’s spring, in Hyde Park,” he suggested. 

“Spring! Why it’s nearly summer!” She had 
been to Hyde Park, the day before, she told him. 
“The lilacs were fading, and the irises were gone. 
Soon the roses would be coming out.” 

“Not tomorrow, but the day after, in Hyde Park? 
You must say yes, Isabel!” he implored. 

“The day after? In Hyde Park? Do you think 
we should?” 

“I’m going to be there anyway,” announced Wade, 
to settle it. “Near the Achilles statue. I’ll come in 
at the Hyde Park Corner. About ten minutes past 
twelve. You don’t need to tell me. 77/ be there any¬ 
way. I’ve got to go now. Tell me again! My 
Isabel!” 


RECOGNITION 


149 


Afterward, on the ’bus, he wondered how he had 
torn himself away from that look of hers, clinging, 
fearing, loving! 

When he looked back from the door through which 
he had come, she was sitting as he had found her, with 
her eyes on the picture of the Holy Family. 


CHAPTER XV 


A CHEQUE 

T HE memory of that meeting of revelation 
would have been pure bliss if he had not 
sensed what their love was going to mean to 
Isabel. He had the refuge of his work, and she “had 
not much to do except on Saturdays!” At his home, 
affection was not required of him; he was at least 
spared that. Isabel probably had to submit to affec¬ 
tion: one couldn’t think of living in the same house 
with Isabel, and not wanting to caress her. It was 
unendurable, thinking of her having to submit to af¬ 
fection— 

He was thankful that he had his work to turn to, 
and then he made the discovery that he couldn’t write; 
had lost the trick; he had nothing to write about. 
Mind always creeping back to Isabel. 

Anybody can write one story. And he had written 
his! 

Somewhere in his book prowlings he had read of 
insects who die after their one great moment of crea¬ 
tion. He had had his, the wild moment of delirium, 
or production. That was the sum of his attainment? 
He fell to depths of unplumbed despair. 

His homecoming grew more difficult; the meals 
more graceless; little Alma more piteous. Not able to 
write, he told himself, meant never being able to 

150 


A CHEQUE 


I 5 I 

burst his prison walls. After being given a glimpse of 
open fields, wide open spaces of growth, and then the 
prison doors clanging! All the worse, because of that 
glimpse of freedom. 

Not that he’d planned to desert Alma and the child. 
But a way of fulfilling his duty to them, and to give his 
soul a holiday. Which means money, extra money 
she does not know about, so cannot demand and have 
a scene over. Money for those extra meals downtown. 

He had suggested to Alma, making his voice casual 
as he said it, that the house expenses would be lessened, 
as well as the work, if he staid downtown regularly 
two or three times a week. That he found it easier to 
do his work after the other men had gone; she knew 
how it was! He was trying to do some studying. 
For one can’t keep up with the game, younger men 
coming along to oust one, unless one studies. 

Her answer, and the look that had accompanied, 
burned like acid. So she thought that he was planning 
wild orgies on the money he had suggested withdraw¬ 
ing from her allowance? Was it an allowance he 
gave her? Bringing back his salary the day he draws 
it; handing it over to her, and getting back what she 
decided he needed for the next thirty days, which one 
gets the allowance, he’d like to know? 

Then the cheque came. 

He had given a good deal of thought to the cheque. 
His speculation had covered small and large sums. 
Not the first night of ecstacy and anguish when he had 
thought of nothing but the need of getting it out of 
him, and on to paper; he had not thought of the com¬ 
pensation then. But later on, taking up the manu- 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


152 

script, and finding it fairly decent, coming out of a nest 
of wool and goat's hair one might say, the question 
began to tease. What would he get for it? How 
would Jepson value it, having ordered it, although 
from a raw recruit? Enough to pay for the extra 
dinners downtown, he hoped, and something over to 
add to his liberty fund. 

The cheque was lying on his desk when he came 
down one morning, several days after his last meeting 
with Isabel at Hertford House. Fackenthal had just 
stopped him in the hall to tell him that Jepson was 
much pleased with the story. And coming in to his 
desk, there was the cheque. In a Globe envelope 
which anybody could see. 

There were clerks about, so he couldn't satisfy his 
curiosity at once. Hobbs was standing by his desk, 
waiting for some papers, he said. He had to wait 
until he could find the papers for Hobbs who wanted 
to talk to him. A ripping speaker, he thought Hobbs 
said, from the States, was giving a talk that night. 
He'd like to have Graeme go with him. He supposed 
Hobbs would like to be able to tell the office what he 
got for that antique drivel! 

After Hobbs left him, carrying the desired papers, 
he opened the Globe envelope. Five pounds! 

Not once had it crossed his mind that he would get 
as much as five pounds. 

Decent of Jepson. Awfully decent. Treated him 
as though he weren't raw; encouraging him, because 
the Globe likes to discover new talent. Due to Fack¬ 
enthal. And to his mother. 

If he were just any one, who had had to push his 


A CHEQUE 


i53 

way into the Globe outer office, had even achieved an 
interview with the great Jepson himself, think he’d 
have been given five pounds for the first thing sub¬ 
mitted? Hundreds of men would give their eye teeth 
for just such a chance, and it had fallen to him. Be¬ 
cause he was an old friend of Fackenthal’s. Perhaps 
he had been losing such opportunities by refusing invi¬ 
tations from the other old friends, the Knights and the 
rest? 

A mole he was, a burrowing thing. Not taking 
what was in his grasp, what other fellows, born on the 
outside, have to scheme for. Jepson, and the way 
out! His liberty fund! 

Alma endured him because of his salary. What¬ 
ever else he could earn, might that not be his? A 
room by himself wouldn’t cost much. He could get 
the furniture at second hand. He’d already priced 
it. And dinners downtown three times a week. If 
the margin were large enough, why not every night 
in the week? The expanding thought made him 
breathless, why go home at all? Why not work for 
that, for independence? A room downtown, a cell 
of a room lined with books, no reason why not, if be 
could give Alma enough to get along on! 

She would oppose it, his second thoughts told him. 
For Alma was orthodox. She believed in people stay¬ 
ing together, once they were married. He knew how 
she felt about that. She knew some people at the 
Cape, unholy people, who had done that sort of thing, 
couldn’t get along, so lived apart. She would accuse 
him of being wild; of wanting younger, prettier 


women. 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


154 

But what trips he would take, were he free! 
Trips to Paris and Italy; and he yearned to go to 
Bozen, and Meran, and Cortina. The mob could 
have Switzerland. He wanted to see the Dolomites 
before those w r onder-hued mountains became the 
world’s iced birthday cake, as Switzerland had got to 
be. Egypt, perhaps, if the margin ever got big 
enough, a week of spring in Rome, spring when the 
lilacs and the irises were blooming by old stone walls, 
w T hen the Scala di Spagna was aglow with spring sun¬ 
shine and spring blossoms and the brilliant dresses of 
peasants; not only a lure for the tourist dollars, but 
because the Latins live their poetry. 

Living poetry. Wonder if there isn't an idea 
there? Not for the Globe, perhaps, but for another 
sort of paper, or magazine. The British don't live 
their poetry. The Latins, the French and Italians, do 
live theirs. Doesn’t that put a different quality into 
their verse ? He would have to read a lot, to make his 
case. 

With an exhilarating sense of justification he dined 
at a restaurant that night. At the table, he w r as fairly 
bursting with excitement. He wished Isabel were 
sitting opposite, that he might tell her of the five 
pounds. His waitress might not have been so 
haughty over his order, looking over her shoulder for 
a more promising prospect, the kind that gives lavish 
orders, if she knew about that five pounds lying in his 
desk. 

This exhilaration meant that he was in the mood for 
writing. It was the way he felt the night after leav- 


A CHEQUE 


i55 

ing Jepson and Fackenthal. He hastened his meal; 
no wine, nor ale! He wanted the full integrity of his 
mind if he were going to turn his “foolish thinking 
into funds.” 

This story, he reminded himself, would be more 
difficult than the last one. That had the colour of an 
unfamiliar country to enrich it. Not many people 
have been to the Cape, spent nights on the Karroo. 
But to prove there is an undiscovered country, right 
here, in London, a task here, to prove skill. 

He needed a stiff task to keep his mind off Isabel. 
His thoughts insisted on running back to her, like a 
whining dog which wants to bury his nose in his mis¬ 
tress’ skirts. 

If it were to be a real meal for a fastidious public, 
there would have to be good, juicy meat in it; meant 
lots of reading. Isabel would help him there— 

A perpetual motion game that, to earn money out 
of one’s reading which gives one a chance to read 
more! Not a bad life for a man who likes rituals, 
who understands why the French and Italians put 
poetry into their meals, under the grapevines, or on 
the sidewalk under an arbour if there is no garden, 
with a bottle of wine and a dish of paste or salad. 
Live their poetry, they do, while we only read it. 
Isabel tries to live hers, with her roses, her crowds— 
Isabel! 

Soberly he left the eating house as a man should 
when he is keeping an appointment with his own soul. 
He tried to keep his mind on his story, tried to refuse 
admission to Isabel, though how she could help him, 


156 THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 

get him started on the right road! Could help him 
far more than that bored virgin of the British Mu¬ 
seum Library! 

Frightful job, that, to be a custodian of the world’s 
wisdom. Doling it out in capsules. Naturally, it 
subdues one. It would be like reading the dictionary; 
one drowns in words. Drowning in facts, the libra¬ 
rians of the British Museum Library. Poetry all 
about them, but they see only the capsules, after they 
are made. Isabel sees it being made— 

A face, passing, reminded him of some one he used 
to know, he thought at the Cape. He wheeled, and 
the man, who had turned to look at him, wheeled, too, 
and passed into the crowd which was moving theatre- 
wards. Not so swiftly that Graeme did not catch a 
glimpse of a goldheaded stick, flashily fashioned. 
Odd, he thought, that his memory associated the 
stranger with the Cape, before seeing the stick. Like 
that walking stick he found at his house— 

It was possible that he had seen or met that fellow 
at the Cape. His was an obstinate, retentive memory; 
it never forgot a face. He might have met this man 
but once, to remember him years later in a London 
crowd. 

He flooded the offices with light. When the read¬ 
ing room was adjusted to his needs, table placed per¬ 
fectly, paper and pencils ready, he found his mind 
straying back to the Karroo. 

He reread the Globe story. It astonished him, re¬ 
ferring to his notes, how much he had cut out. 
Enough stuff for another Cape story, with a different 
objective. Good notion to follow up the Globe story. 


A CHEQUE 


i57 


The poetry notion would require time. He would 
work at this one while reading up for the next. The 
idea would not blow away! 

At ten o’clock he pushed back his chair. One 
article, printed and paid for. Another well started, 
blocked out, and planning to read up for the third. 
His foot on the ladder. Life not so drab. A woman 
to worship, a goal to reach, some sweet memories, 
why should he complain? 

His love for Isabel brought him nearer, oddly, to 
his mother. She must have been once, like Isabel. 
He had to go into the room where his desk was, to put 
his hand on the picture of Wade House. In the dark, 
standing there, his eyes filling up, as though the wells 
of his soul, long dry, were refilling. Because of her be¬ 
lief in him, he might yet be what she wanted him to be. 

Standing there, in the half light, a glimmer filter¬ 
ing through the transom from the outer hall, he could 
believe himself in the sitting-room at Wade House, 
in the twilight, having run in after a late game of 
tennis, or a walk with his dogs, to find her lying on 
the sofa, as he had often found her, looking out into 
the night, the night she was facing. Putting out his 
hands to find her, and meeting her soft, upturned face! 

As if he had his hand now on her brow. And bless¬ 
ing her. Blessing her. Telling her that he had been 
in prison, her son, and that at last he was free. 

Standing quietly there, sending his spirit out into the 
night, wherever she was. That minute, hers and his. 
Her son! 


CHAPTER XVI 


A FORMULA FOR GENIUS 

F ACKENTHAL had not reported completely to 
Graeme his talk with Jepson when he stopped 
him in the hall to tell him that the editor was 
much pleased with his story, adding, as a subtle hint, 
or spur, that that was Jepson’s particular self-in¬ 
dulgence; he liked to discover new talent. Jepson had 
said more. But the rest was not for Graeme’s ears. 

He had met Jepson in the vestibule of the club, 
Fackenthal entering in his deliberate and leisurely way, 
Jepson explosively leaving, as was his custom. 
Neither social or business engagements did the editor 
ever hasten, as long as they were entertaining, or 
promised to be profitable. Time seemed valueless 
to him at such moments, or when writing a letter, or 
an editorial. The last drop of juice from the fruit, 
the complete meat from the nut, then haste came to 
Jepson. The next thing urged hurry, the engagement 
he’d forgotten, had kept hanging, perhaps, with all of 
London, it might be between, and no time allowed for 
the journey. 

“I don’t live with a watch in my hand,” he would 
defend his habit to his friends. “Just as I’ve begun 
to have a good time here, people warming up, getting 
together, you’d have me run away to another place 

where I may be bored to death? Always going some- 

158 


A FORMULA FOR GENIUS 


i59 

where else, spending one’s life getting to places! Not 
for me! Pleasant moments are priceless.” 

The presses would have to wait for him, for an edi¬ 
torial paragraph needed, if Jepson were writing a 
letter. Nothing mattered at that minute, but that 
letter. “Why do we write unless it’s important, what 
what we’ve got to say to the other fellow? Then it’s 
important that he gets our exact meaning, our com¬ 
plete meaning. I don’t write to get a duty off my 
mind.” 

Outsiders rarely saw the leisurely Jepson. The 
Public, and his critics, knew the hurried Jepson, head 
down, bolting through corridors, or sitting in his car, 
with lips compressed, seeing no one. His hurrying 
figure was one of the best known in London. A pose, 
his critics called his habit of bolting and speeding, as 
though, the editor of a rival paper once said: “As 
though the Globe were the Sun , and people paid any 
serious attention to its rising!” 

Fackenthal had halted him to speak of Graeme’s 
story. He wanted to know what Jepson thought of 
it. Pretty decent he thought; no trace of the amateur. 

Jepson squinted at his friend. He was an hour 
late for an appointment with an Austrian editor who 
was returning to Vienna the next day. It had just oc¬ 
curred to him how important that interview was. He 
was seeing Fackenthal through a daze, and found it 
difficult to place Graeme. The incident began to 
come back to him, as he stood there, frowning. Fack¬ 
enthal, his firm, wool and goat’s hair, the fellow they 
had sent to the Cape,—and then it was permanently 
established. 


160 THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 

“There’s good stuff in him,” stated Fackenthal, 
wanting Jepson’s corroboration. He himself wasn’t 
sure. Those eight years of paralysis had discouraged 
him. This might be only a flash of strength, showing 
what might have been. 

“He has talent, undoubtedly. It may be more. 
I’ll tell you what he has. It’s the trick of suffering, 
of taking things, the storms of life, full in the face, 
taking the hurt, not evading it, not deadening one’s 
nerves to it. You know what I mean? He’s all 
cutis, no cuticle. If you can turn that type towards 
creating, you can generally make something big out of 
it.” 

Fackenthal beamed. He had not expected so much. 
It was a pleasant thought, Mary Graeme’s son suc¬ 
ceeding, making something of himself, the boy that 
should have been his son. Gratifying, too, to think 
that he had helped him a little on his way. 

“He has had plenty to suffer over,” he admitted. 
“Though he doesn’t talk about it.” He was not going 
to talk about it either. It was not necessary. It 
would be as disloyal as opening and betraying a 
friend’s letter. “He has known gentle days, decent 
surroundings. And he hasn’t them, now.” 

“I saw that,” said Jepson, buttoning his coat. “But 
don’t regret it. That’s the forcing bed. If he were 
in the right surroundings, had got them without effort, 
that trick of suffering might be deadened. Poignant 
feeling is easily spoiled. You know what I mean? 
He might write nicely enough, millions can do that, 
correct, classic, passionless, superficial. But when you 
know beauty and culture and daintiness, and you 


A FORMULA FOR GENIUS 161 

haven’t got it, and you’re starving for it, you run a 
good chance to fight your way through to where it all 
is. Talent can be forced into genius, or near genius, 
in that sort of hot-bed, Fackenthal.” 

“I hope that you are going to force one this time,” 
responded his friend, more broadly beaming. 

“It isn’t the mere putting words and sentences to¬ 
gether. That’s essential, of course, but anybody can 
learn how to do that.” Jepson had forgotten his ap¬ 
pointment with the Austrian editor. “It’s seeing 
ahead, being able to see ahead, that counts. One 
must be a pioneer in ideas. One has to delve beneath 
the established order of things, see the upheavals 
working below transitions, you know what I mean? 
lose all reverence for tradition, lose reverence for 
anything in the world but truth. Not just pretend to. 
The market is full of writing fakirs hunting for new 
ideas to exploit, in order that they in turn may 
be exploited. They are rockets. Their work may 
be brilliant for a moment, but it’s not sincere, not last¬ 
ing. But to find the truth through suffering, through 
having met the storms in the face, why that plus the 
trick of what the Germans call das ge flugelte PVort, is 
apt to lead to permanent achievement.” 

“I hope that you’re right,” repeated Fackenthal, 
suspecting he had uncovered a hobby. 

Jepson started for the outer door, and then came 
back. 

“There are a few privileges which ease the responsi¬ 
bility of a paper like the Globe. This is one of them. 
I encourage budding talent; give it a genuine chance. 
I lead it on, tempt it with encouragement. If it’s a 


162 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


fakir, the loss is little, and out he goes. But if it’s a 
bulldog, one that can stand discouragement, and I 
tempt them with that, too, the Globe is his. Once in a 
while, I land a bulldog. Think perhaps you found 
one for me. Watch that fellow’s jaw when he thinks 
you’re not watching him.” 

“Hope so,” rejoined Fackenthal, amazed. 
Thoughtfully he went upstairs. It was surprising to 
have uncovered all this. Mary’s son! 

He was beginning to think of Graeme as though 
he were a blood relation. His talk with Jepson 
pleased him the more he thought about it. He was 
recalling it when he stopped to speak to Wade, though 
he told him only what Jepson thought of his article. 
He thought of it increasingly after a talk with the jan¬ 
itor. He had stopped to ask Mumford if many of 
the men used the rest room, after office hours? 

“Mr. Graeme, sir. Three times a week, now. 
The hothers came hin, hoccasionally, sir.” 

Fackenthal was moving on when Mumford halted 
him. 

“Perhaps hi horter to tell you, sir. A woman 
comes, too.” 

Fackenthal stopped, as by a blow. 

“She’s been ’ere, twice. No, three times, looking 
harfter ’im.” 

Not a bulldog. Just a false dawn, the stimulus of 
a love adventure. 

“With him, you say?” 

“Looking harfter ’im, sir. ’E’s never seen ’er. ’E 
doesn’t know hit, sir. She’s watchin’ ’im, she doesn’t 


A FORMULA FOR GENIUS 163 

want ’im to know. Snoops, and harsks questions. A 
queer sort, not ’is kind, sir.” 

The wife, thought Fackenthal, clearly the Boer wife. 
Mumford’s description, “the queer sort,” meant the 
kind that does not give a gratuity to a janitor who 
answers her questions. 

He felt immensely relieved. To have traced this 
late blooming to a vulgar adventure would have dis¬ 
appointed him keenly; to have had the rest room used 
for a tryst, by Graeme, would have hurt him. Espe¬ 
cially after his talk with Jepson. He was glad it was 
not that. 

“The wife was spying on him! She does not believe 
that he is at work. That means she hasn’t been told 
about his writing. She thinks he is carousing—while 
he is struggling, having to hide his ambitions as though 
they were guilt. Pretty tough, Wade!” 

“I’m glad you told me about that,” he told Mum- 
ford, and was passing, but the man again stopped him. 

“Hit was a man, once. Not your sort. Not ’is 
sort.” 

“Watching Graeme, too? What did he want?” 

“Snooping. ’Er sort.” 

It bothered Fackenthal, and aroused his fighting 
blood. He began to plan to circumvent that woman 
who wanted to drag Wade back. Jealous, was she, 
he wondered? He speculated about the man Mum- 
ford had spoken of. It was not likely that Alma 
would spend any of her hoarded shillings on a detec¬ 
tive. He suspected that she demanded all of Wade’s 
salary. And they lived like beggars! He fancied he 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


164 

had stumbled on the reason: she thought he was 
earning more money than he was giving her; she was 
shadowing him to see how he was spending it. 

Fackenthal made the discovery that he was enjoy¬ 
ing his assumed fatherhood. He determined that he 
was not going to be thwarted by such a negligible ob¬ 
stacle as the Boer wife. He was going to see more 
of Wade, he promised himself. 

But that was not easy to arrange. One does not 
see much of one’s clerks, because they are one’s clerks. 
It upsets discipline, Knight insisted. And if a man is 
working out a stubborn evolution from whipped puppy 
to fighting bulldog, he must be allowed time for him¬ 
self, must have those three evenings a week to himself. 
But cannot a well-wisher, questioned Fackenthal, 
assist that evolution? The club, he debated, was 
good, once in a while. It would mean establishing a 
profitable friendship, perhaps, but it would also mean 
evading pleasant friendships which cost money. For 
going around takes money. And then it occurred to 
him that the only way he could get around the delicate 
item of expense was to invite Graeme, as his guest, for 
a trip somewhere. 

He thought of Scotland. But Scotland would mean 
money again. A shoot has its drawbacks to a man 
whose wife ties the pursestrings. For the same reason 
he dismissed a week-end at the Country club. Golf, 
like shooting, demands its proper clothes. 

Paris? The idea of a jaunt to Paris enchanted him. 
He remembered that he knew a lot of interesting 
people over there, painting fellows, and others. He 
decided that he would call it a week-end, and then 


A FORMULA FOR GENIUS 


165 

lengthen it artfully. A bank holiday was discovered 
to be on its way. That would give them four days. 
They would travel at night, to give Wade the full 
value of the days in Paris. There would be some 
“snooping,” he supposed, to see if the clerk-husband 
were truly travelling with his employer. But small 
difference that would make, to Wade, in Paris! 

He achieved a seemingly casual meeting with 
Graeme, in the outer office, at closing time. They 
walked out into the hall together. There Fackenthal 
said: 

“I’m bored with London, Wade. I’m going to run 
away.” 

Graeme knew he was flushing. It had been a long 
time since Mr. Fackenthal had called him “Wade.” 

“I get restless, every now and then, for Paris. I 
get what I call a Paris hunger. London is all right, 
for a time, for a long time, but then it’s got to be 
Paris, the Champs Elysees, the Place de la Concorde 
when the lights are being lit, the Champs Elysees 
when the lights are shining on the streets wet from a 
quick shower. I’m thinking of running over for the 
week-end.” 

Wade made his face express sympathy. Nice to be 
able to run over to Paris when you’re bored with 
London. That’s freedom. 

His surprise came quickly, for Fackenthal was say¬ 
ing: 

“I must be getting old. I don’t like going alone, I 
fincK Like roast without salt, a trip now by myself. 
I’d like to have you go with me, as my son, Wade.” 

It was nicely done. Not even a Wade pride could 


166 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


take umbrage. Paris! As Fackenthal’s son. That 
meant being taken as his guest, meant giving his soul 
a holiday. He would have new memories to share 
with Isabel, memories she would love, of her beloved 
France. He wondered what Alma would say about 
it? 

“Take your time to think it over, to arrange for it,” 
suggested Fackenthal. 

“I have thought. I’m going. And it’s awfully kind 
of you, Mr. Fackenthal.” 

“Good. That’s ripping,” said his employer. 
“Wednesday night then. We’ll go at night to save 
all the time we can for Paris.” 

“Wednesday?” questioned Graeme, amazed. 

“It’s a bank holiday, Thursday. That’s what put it 
into my head, made it possible. I’ll meet you here at 
five, and we’ll dine together at the club,—I’ll look up 
trains before I make any plans, and send you a memo, 
Wade.” 

“Thank you, sir,” again said Graeme. 

Going to Paris; with Fackenthal; as his son. Fri¬ 
day, Saturday, Sunday in Paris; Thursday, too! It 
would be a rich experience, going with Fackenthal, 
who knew all kinds of people. He was up in art, too, 
he kept up, in books and drama and music. It would 
be a short cut to the best in Paris. He would have a 
lot to tell Isabel, afterwards. But first, he had to tell 
Alma— 

She met it the usual way. 

“It’s nice being able to get away; even if your friends 
do ignore your wife!” But the dikes were holding. 

“But no women are going, Alma,” he explained. 


A FORMULA FOR GENIUS 


167 

“Fackenthal has no wife to take. It’s a man’s trip.” 

U A man’s trip. Why are no women going? Be¬ 
cause he’d have to ask your wife.” 

No use trying to argue with her. He only prayed 
that the dikes would hold until he was finished his 
breakfast. He had purposely abstained telling her 
about it until the last minute. 

“And why can’t they ask your wife? Because she 
looks like a cook. If he thinks so much of you, 
enough to take you to Paris, why doesn’t he give you 
enough to let your wife look like a lady?” she de¬ 
manded. 

He did not dare to suggest to her that she might 
manage a little better. He had begun to doubt her 
efficiency in that direction. Isabel, too, was poor; she 
had made no secret of their poverty. And she had 
been able to transform a piteously forlorn house into 
a home of charm. She could hold her own, Isabel 
could, with any one. The difference of a child could 
not mean much, not a child like little Alma. Her 
mother made her clothes; Alma never called in a doc¬ 
tor; she opposed every suggestion of a doctor; she had 
the same rebellions against schools. They lived like 
beggars, the three of them. Look at their rooms, 
their table. Alma had not allowed him to keep any 
of the Wade furniture, nor the silver, even the books. 
When she found that the house was not theirs, she 
had been so outraged, so disappointed, he had had to 
give in to her, had let her sell the belongings, outright, 
to Fackenthal. 

What had she done with that money? She had 
said, their living expenses. He knew better, now. 


168 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


What had she added to their home? A second-hand 
carpet; a new stove; some coarse linen. It was clear 
that she did not know how to manage. Her trade- 
people evidently cheated her. But one can’t say that 
to Alma! 

“You don’t have to take women along with you 
when you go to Paris,” added his wife, sweeping the 
crumbs from her place into her plate. 

It seemed strange that she had never noticed that 
people don't clear their place that way, not in Eng¬ 
land; not people one knows. He always waited for 
her to do it, waited, repelled, fascinated until it was 
done. Old Krieger did it. That he himself did not 
do it was perhaps the reason that Alma did. 

Anyway, he had broken his news to her. That was 
ended, for the time. To be begun again that night, 
when he came home, and tomorrow morning, until he 
was safely gone. 

In the tube, he realized that she had not opposed 
his going. Resentment, but not opposition she had 
given him. He had learned something. She doesn’t 
oppose a plan already made; that was her type, to 
knuckle under to masterfulness. She’d been crushed, 
quelled at home; brought up to obey. So took the 
first chance at quelling and crushing herself. If he 
had not been so cowed at first by her condition, he 
would not have become so easily the cringing thing he 
was. If he had it to do over again, he would know 
how to manage a woman like Alma. He would know 
enough to keep out of the scrape altogether! Im¬ 
agine beginning again? 

He would never have met Isabel, if he had not come 


A FORMULA FOR GENIUS 169 

with Alma to Bird Place. What chance of stumbling 
over an obscure rose like that in a mob of seven 
millions? So what was there to moan about? If 
he’d do it all over again just for the chance of know¬ 
ing her, of sitting with her once in a while at Hert¬ 
ford House or in Hyde Park, of loving her, why 
life is not such a rotten show after all—and there you 
are! 


CHAPTER XVII 


A BULLDOG 

T HEY were crossing the Channel by moon¬ 
light. Fackenthal was smoking, and saying 
a word once in a while. The night clear 
and balmy, warm enough to sit on deck, and smoke 
and watch the stars. 

Fackenthal had proved the perfect companion. 
Not knowing the exact thing to see, only, or the imme¬ 
diate opera to hear, but knowing when to be quiet, 
when to drop back and give a man a chance to be 
alone,—chance to think about it all, and of the woman 
he loves. 

Perhaps it was because of Isabel’s nationality that 
he carried through Paris the sense of her accompany¬ 
ing presence. Though he had found she was not 
wholly French. She had taken something from her 
English father, a trick of manner, of walking. Or 
was it an unconscious imitation of the people she lived 
among? 

Twice Fackenthal had allowed him the Louvre, 
once to have his “raw fill,” as he expressed it, alone; 
and once together, when he had pointed out some of 
his favourites. Isabel was with him, in the Louvre. 
She had sat beside him at the opera. Had she not 
thrilled with him over the introduction of the Old 

Guard in the new German opera which had taken the 

170 


A BULLDOG 


I 7 I 

French Capital by storm? And on the river; on the 
train going to St.Cloud; on the balcony of the little 
restaurant where they had looked down upon a quaint, 
flower-crowded garden and a green-bordered stream, 
hadn’t she been with him, telling him what she thought 
about it all? 

She was with him now, crossing the Channel with 
him, sitting by him in the moonlight, watching the star- 
sprinkled sky. And quiet, like Fackenthal; letting 
her mind meet his, halfway. 

As the British coast ran to meet them, he realized 
that he would have to remind himself to tell her of 
his impressions, so convincingly present had she been 
with him. At Paris: St. Cloud, Versailles. 

Like moonlight, Isabel was. Moonlight is not cold; 
it is kindly, softening everything it touches. It makes 
everything seem better than it is; it turns London 
streets and dingy London houses into beauty. Just 
the way Isabel does. Covers sour old walls with 
roses. Silvers life, she does. Makes a man want to 
live up to her ideal of him. 

A stimulating thing, faith is. Fackenthal also had 
faith in him. Even if he did not want to creep out 
of his groove to please Isabel, for his own sake, he 
would want to do it for Mr. Fackenthal. 

“Pretty soon home, Wade. London and work 
days.” Fackenthal met his eyes. 

“Yes, but stored up memories!” returned Wade. 

With each successive step in the journey his grati¬ 
tude to his thoughtful friend increased. So easy had 
it been for Fackenthal to insist on talking over the 
things they had seen! But in the train he smoked 


172 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


and read; commenting once in a while on the news of 
the periodicals: and dozed and smoked again. Not 
noticing his companion’s silence, not challenging it. 

Picture after picture was crossing Graeme’s inner 
vision; the crowded, tree-lined streets; the cafes; the 
busy, piquante faces; the sunlight on the river,—sun¬ 
light and moonlight every instant of Paris! He 
wanted to fix those impressions, for he would proba¬ 
bly never go back there,—he pulled himself up sharply. 
Say a thing is impossible, that you can’t do it, and it’s 
good betting that you never will. A week ago, he 
would have said this could never happen, and here he 
was sitting opposite Fackenthal, his train steaming 
into London, with Paris achieved, an actual memory! 

Only four days ago he had left Charing Cross 
station, and here he was back again, a man made over 
as it were. Able to face Bird Place with serenity, 
pleasure even, because he was to pass Her door. 

Everything dating from the dazed fumbling that 
night in the fog. Even this trip, Fackenthal’s interest 
in him, because of that night, because of Isabel. 

“The door is on the latch!” 

He could see the room of roses. 

“I always knew it would happen in fog like this!” 
Strange how real her voice was! As soon as he 
realized that he was looking at her, she had a trick of 
melting away. If he could only see her steadily, with¬ 
out that shock of knowing he was seeing her! Per¬ 
haps then he could keep her standing there. He 
must teach himself not to say: Why, I am really 
seeing her, really hearing her voice! 

“Speak to me again, Isabel!” 


A BULLDOG 


i73 


“Oh, no, not if you have any inside of you! 1 ’ And 
then gone again, like a mist, like moonlight swept be¬ 
hind the fog. 

Fackenthal and the other two occupants of the com¬ 
partment were beginning to bestir themselves. Char¬ 
ing Cross in a minute, and the wonder trip ended. 
But not gone. Not when you’ve learned the secret of 
keeping things with you; Jove, that’s what the ex¬ 
pression “mind’s eye” means. The mind’s eye! 

“Well, it’s been a good time, Wade,” Fackenthal 
said affectionately as they separated, Graeme to take 
the tube, and Fackenthal his car which Wade refused 
to share, for it would carry him out of his way. 
“And you’ve been a bully companion.” 

All Graeme could stammer was that it had been 
wonderful, and that he didn’t know how to thank him. 

London again; apparently the same rut. Going to 
make the same motions, morning and evening going 
home to sleep, or to eat with his family; going down 
to the office each day, externally the same Wade 
Graeme. But everything changed, himself changed. 
Fackenthal had seen it, too. He had said in Paris: 
“Keep up the fight, Wade. Your mother would be 
proud of you, too, my boy.” 

He had known all the time that Fackenthal was 
drawing him out. But why analyze or be self con¬ 
scious when one is having the bulliest man-time ever 
hoped for? He was remembering a look on Fack- 
enthal’s face. He had heard a low chuckle, and 
had looked up to catch Fackenthal smiling, as though 
pleased. 

“You look just like a bulldog when you stiffen 


174 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


your jaw like that. As though you could fight the 
whole of London.” 

“I feel that way,” he had answered, and they had 
fallen quiet again on the river-boat, Fackenthal smok¬ 
ing, dozing, he himself pretending to doze. 

He would soon be under Isabel’s window. In a 
few minutes he would be winging her a good-night, 
almost a good-morning now, up to her window-boxes. 

Then his own home. But with a stout courage 
to face it and get through with it. He let himself in¬ 
to the dark hall, and was stooping to unlace his shoes 
when Fackenthal’s words recurred to him. A bull¬ 
dog? He would not take off his shoes. He would 
walk upstairs in his own house like a man, not like a 
craven who has done something wrong. 

Alma, he thought, was asleep. But as he crept 
into bed her voice from the darkness startled him. 
For he was thinking himself back on the Channel; on 
the boat bathed in moonlight; he was thinking of 
Fackenthal and Isabel— 

“You've been drinking.” 

He had. Hours before. On the boat; a scotch 
and soda. Why should he deny it? 

“Pretending to go away for a three day trip. Stay¬ 
ing away five, and coming home to your wife with a 
breath like that!” 

Beginning again. You need to have a bulldog 
courage all right, Wade Graeme! 

“No sense of shame. Can’t even say you are 
ashamed or sorry. Me staying at home, drudging 
like a servant. And you can go to Paris!” 

He wanted to say that she too could go if any one 


A BULLDOG 


i75 


liked her well enough to ask her! Was it his fault 
that she had no friends? The old groove, berating 
her in his mind, using up his mind with bitterness and 
fault finding. Almost as bad thinking it, as letting 
yourself go and saying it;—the way she does! 

He listened to a little more of it, and then got up. 

“Any more blankets in this house ?” 

“In the press. In the hall. Are you cold? I 
shouldn’t think you’d be cold —” 

He was fumbling in the dark for matches. Her 
voice followed him out into the hall, upbraiding, com¬ 
plaining, pitying herself. 

Suddenly she discovered that he was going down¬ 
stairs. 

“Where are you going?” she cried. 

“I am going,” said Graeme, “to try to sleep. But 
not with you. Never again.” 

That night he slept on the parlour floor. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


OVERTONES 

T HE winter which followed was a period of 
growth for the “finished” clerk of Facken- 
thal, Knight and Company, Ltd. He was 
spending four or five nights a week at the office, 
often writing late into the night; sometimes calmly; 
sometimes possessed by a fury of haste. Every time 
he thought of the years lost, he would fall into a panic 
of work; reading, studying voraciously, during the 
noon hours, of the five working days when he did not 
meet Isabel, or during the two home evenings, before 
the cold grate, or in his newly acquired cubicle of a 
room that had been little Alma’s. 

His silent declaration of freedom was the cheap 
bedroom set, shoddy as well as shabby, which he had 
found in a second-hand shop on Haberdasher Street: 
a bed, dresser, a mattress. He had had to pay more 
than he had intended because that particular store was 
willing to deliver on Sunday, and he wanted the 
change made during Alma’s absence. 

He staid home from church that day. Before the 
furniture arrived, he had moved the child’s crib from 
the tiny room. He had the new pieces installed there 
before Alma returned from the late communion serv¬ 
ice. The carrier received an unexpectedly fat gratu¬ 
ity because his promise had been kept. 

176 


OVERTONES 


177 

Graeme verified that day an earlier discovery. 
Alma accepted changes carried off in that high¬ 
handed way; that was the system to which she was 
trained. Perhaps, he reflected, that was the reason 
she so despised him; only half a man must he have 
seemed after the rough domination of old Krieger. 

To avoid scenes, he told himself again, he had let 
himself seem a coward, he had knuckled under. No 
longer would he knuckle under. He had learned his 
lesson; and from her. He was going to subtract his 
usual allowance for ’bus fares and meals; was going 
to subtract also the price of the furnishings, and tell 
her so. Before bringing home his salary, he was go¬ 
ing to do that. Else she would suspect his liberty 
fund; would begin to demand it. 

He did not wither, he found, under her silent scorn, 
or later, under her spoken criticism. Didn’t mind 
even her saying that she would send the things back, 
for he alone knew where they had come from. She 
told him that he had been cheated, that the bed would 
fall with him some night. He hadn’t bought the 
things, he told her, because they were works of art! 

A few weeks later, the purchase was augmented: a 
small table and a reading lamp nobody else would 
have paid money for were sent to Bird Place. He 
listened cheerfully to his wife’s scoffing. 

Called it “getting fancy’’! Thought it getting 
fancy to keep one’s mind fed! 

Each night reminded him that it was not a perfect 
arrangement. The mattress was hard, and caved in 
in the middle. There were not enough covers to keep 
three beds going, and he was often cold; slept cold. 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


1 78 

He had to pass through her room in order to get to 
his. But he had determined not to let little thorns 
like these prick his satisfaction. 

He ordered the oil for the lamp. He told Alma 
that he would attend to the filling of the lamp, and 
that once he had paid for the oil; that it was not put 
on her bill. 

“I don’t have bills,” she had curtly stated. “I pay 
as I go. I get things cheaper for cash, and it’s easy 
to carry the things we’re able to buy.” 

Ironic disdain from Alma, but no row. It occurred 
to him that the change carried the same relief to her. 
An insult, at first it had seemed. But who would 
wish to watch the cowed creepings, the daily humilia¬ 
tions of one’s prisoner? 

It was in the new room that he discovered he was 
not old. He had been with Isabel at noon; had been 
humbled again by the adoration in her lovely eyes. 
What, he had asked himself, after he had left her, 
what could she see in him worth loving, in the aging, 
routine clerk of wool and goat’s hair? She must love 
the thing she couldn’t see, loved perhaps in spite of 
his old, stooping body! 

The thought followed him through the day. It was 
with him when he closed his door that night. He 
asked the new mirror what she could see in him? 

The youth of Surrey looked back at him; the man 
of the Karroo. Shoulders straightening up? Youth, 
animation in those eyes? Clear, English blue eyes. 
Clean chiselled features, like the Wades. All the 
family pictures showed that sharp outlining, the same 
sensitive mouth and chin. Hair, dark and straight, 


OVERTONES 


179 

like his mother’s. He looked like her; not handsome 
like her, but thoroughbred, and clean-looking. He 
recognized a new quality in the gaze from the mirror. 
Expectant, that was it. That was what had changed 
him. It is when you stop expecting opportunity, or 
joy, that age comes to you! 

Other people, he found, were recognizing the 
change in him. He got it from the appraising, ap¬ 
proving glances of his fellow clerks, from Alma's 
silent scorn, or from her comment when he bought a 
new tie, or asked her if she would press his trousers? 

Thought he was getting fancy? Thought she had 
to look out for the young husband who was willing to 
keep his wife in the kitchen? But here he pulled 
himself up sharply. He was not to let himself dwell 
on her sarcasms, imagine her broodings. It was the 
old habit which subtracted from his imagination. His 
chance was to press forward—to waste no more pre¬ 
cious time on what couldn’t be changed. For Alma 
was changeless. 

As for a profession, he studied that winter. Was 
it not indeed a profession, he would demand of him¬ 
self, when alone in the rest room at Fetter Lane, that 
he was fitting himself for? If he could write well 
enough to be paid for his margin hours, why not later 
give his whole time to the task he loved? Wasn't 
he a failure as a clerk? 

Everything he wished to write about demanded 
more information, called for late hours of deep dig¬ 
ging in the libraries. He was rusty, he told himself, 
behind in everything. The poetry article was post¬ 
poned because of the months of work it would involve, 


180 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


and because those newspaper fellows wanted more 
timely, vital stuff. They liked his insurgent material; 
he was being directed to a distinct field. 

The Globe articles had been the directing force. 
They had shown him, too, not only his capacity but 
his limitations. He would not be a popular writer; 
his audience would be that of the discontents, of the 
men and women who were surveying intensely the 
whole system of human customs: of democracy; 
of socialism; of peace; capitalism and labour; of the 
duty of the state to the individual as well as its con¬ 
verse. He added, later, marriage to the list, as 
one of the fagots of the social unrest. 

That is the way, he renewed the discovery, that his¬ 
tory works. Dissatisfactions piling up like loose fag¬ 
ots, unrelated fagots, each conscious of itself as the 
sole cause or cure of all the world misery! And 
then one day, whiff! some one drops a match, and the 
whole pile blazes, up together. 

Hobbs introduced him to his crowd, Korniloff and 
his Russian sweetheart, who was recognized as his 
wife by that easy crowd; Hirschler, the fiery little Jew 
with the red hair; Laflin, the long-haired poet of the 
dissatisfied; Garnett Peckham and the rest. These 
had passed him on to other groups; he was urged to 
attend their meetings, and to join clubs. He found 
them all astonishingly well-read. 

It surprised him, therefore, to find them taking his 
easy frothings seriously. His introductions began to 
give him the explanation: “Writes for the Globe, a 
friend of Jepson’s.” Jepson, he learned, was claimed 
to be an unlabelled socialist. Immense respect was 


OVERTONES 181 

paid the Globe. The Globe, he heard on every side, 
was free. 

He, too, was free, was going to be free. That was 
why he must resign himself to small cheques and small 
audiences. The great mass of readers want soothing- 
syrup, doesn’t want to be roused too early, nor to 
have the pleasure of its sunny day spoiled. It wants 
to be fooled, in fact. 

Well, he wasn’t going to play court fool! Out of 
his margin, of freedom, came his writing. He was 
going to keep it free. 

His new friends beckoned him to shabby halls and 
basements; they were also shabby. Had he not es¬ 
poused the cause of the shabby? He attended con¬ 
ferences of socialists, of Homerulers; of labour groups; 
of suffragettes, all equally interesting to him, but 
people, he thought, were silly to get so excited over 
everything. Why, wasn’t it all in sight, all the re¬ 
forms they were howling for? What do a dozen 
years signify to history? 

Ridicule them, the conservatives, the aristocrats, if 
they please, but let the people wake up some morn¬ 
ing in a bad mood, let something happen to the food 
supply—England always twenty-four hours from star¬ 
vation,—and it would be theirs what they wanted, 
the hardfaced women, the brogue speaking brethren, 
labour groups, all of them! 

In December, Jepson, returning an undesired manu¬ 
script, attached a memorandum suggesting that he try 
his hand at fiction. “That is what this suggests to 
me,” he wrote. “It’s that sort of material.” 

He had been trying his hand at it, surreptitiously. 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


182 

But he had found it altogether a different matter, 
putting together a fiction story. His machinery 
creaked. He needed more than style and machinery; 
imagination or experience, or both, he should have. 
And he was behind in his reading there, too. He had 
to discover the modern authors, to see what was be¬ 
ing done. It seemed like playing, to stay downtown 
until midnight, reading Galsworthy, or Dostoievesky. 
Isabel could help him in the new field prodigiously, 
did he want to tell her about it. But it was too soon. 
He wasn’t sure enough yet. He told her, instead, 
of the verses he was dabbling at; easy, short 
outbursts which one can mould into form in the 
subway or ’busses; outlets which do not demand pre¬ 
liminary reading, but which keep the rivers of thought 
clear. 

He told her, too, of the new friends he was making, 
and, instantly, they became hers, Murphy, Hannigan, 
Hirschler, the little red-haired Jew, Garnett Peckham, 
Korniloff the Russian and his Marie Lezynsky who 
could not be his wife because there was one already, 
one who did not believe in divorce, though she refused 
to live with Korniloff. Isabel was especially inter¬ 
ested in the young Russians. He had to describe 
(Marie Lezynsky. 

Because she could not go to such meetings, being 
the wife of a man who did not approve of them, 
Graeme had to bring them to her; he reported the 
talks he heard, brought her names of books the vivid 
groups were reading, or quoting. Having leisure, 
her reading forged ahead of his. In turn, she told 
him what the books were saying, and which ones he 


OVERTONES 183 

must really read for himself. Wonderful, it was to 
have Isabel to share it all with! 

He visited the Korniloffs one Sunday, in their cheap 
apartment at Blackheath. He was deeply disturbed 
for weeks. If he admired the Russian for his cour¬ 
age and his truth, why didn’t he similarly defy con¬ 
vention? To Isabel, this visit was meagrely reported. 

“Honourable people, not like Marie and me,” the 
Russian had confided, as they walked together in the 
afternoon, “would hide their love, and lie about it. 
If they couldn’t get a divorce, they would pretend they 
didn’t want one. Maries hidden all over London. 
Is it fair to the woman? Does it help any one else? 
Push the world a bit further? Make the laws better? 
We say: No, Marie and I. We snap our fingers, 
so! If everybody stopped lying about it, wouldn’t it 
be a better world?’’ 

The thought of the apartment at Blackheath kept 
recurring to him. He knew the way Isabel would 
make it look—not recklessly barbaric, like Marie’s, 
nor Bohemian. It wouldn’t be dusty, nor ash-cov¬ 
ered. The thought intruded between himself and his 
writing. Finally, he dedicated an evening, and ended 
that temptation. Expose a woman like Isabel to the 
publicity that Blood and Alma would pitilessly turn 
upon them? Isolate her in the Korniloff set? Isabel 
had not grown up in the easy circles of Petrograd! 
But it was a long time before he would return to the 
Blackheath hospitality. 

“He likes not my cooking, no?’’ shrugged Marie, 
each time they met. Each time, he had to control the 
impulse to tell her about Isabel. 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


184 

Their own weekly meetings, always the swiftest 
half hour of the twenty-four, were housed now, in the 
galleries. Hyde Park and Kensington were for a 
long time yet too cold for Isabel. But while the win¬ 
ter months were wearing themselves away, they liked 
to talk about the spring. 

Graeme began to plan a trip of celebration, a spring 
celebration. While the lilacs were in bloom, and the 
late blossoming irises and violets still lingered, they 
would spend a whole day at Hampton Court, coming 
home by Kew. 

It was impossible, she said, at first. He was al¬ 
ways home on Sundays, and that was Wade’s only 
day of freedom. 

“I’ll take a special holiday,” he declared. Go 
down to Kew in lilac-time—why, of course, they should 
go there together! 

It became a day of postponed opportunity, their 
calendar pivotting on that day of spring. No time 
to tell her that? why then at Kew! Going to take his 
poems to her then. Every topic interrupted by the 
clamouring London clocks was consigned to that un¬ 
named day in spring. 

Breathless, those precious meetings! Always hur¬ 
rying back to a desk, to a snatched sandwich and the 
waiting columns of wool and goat’s hair! But wildly, 
inexpressibly sweet, those hastened visits were. He 
owed everything to them! 

The way she had of adding her mind to his, push¬ 
ing, as it were, against an obstacle in his path, and 
shoving it out of the way! Way she had of meeting 


OVERTONES 185 

his thought, on the wing, and sending it back richer! 
His wonderful Isabel! 

Inadvertent sentences were revealing to him her 
nervousness. “It was less conspicuous,” she said one 
day, “at Hyde Park.” And another time: “Here, 
in the galleries, people stare so if you are not staring 
at a guidebook or at marbles.” 

Once she said: “Guards look at you so queerly! 
They look at you if you’re alone, and harder, when a 
man joins you whom they have seen with you before. 
Knowing perfectly well that he is not your husband. 
A husband meeting you like that, eagerly, in a gallery, 
if he has just said good-bye to you an hour or so be¬ 
fore, at breakfast?” 

“Or so loath to leave you, with only a few hours 
before another meeting at the dinner table!” matched 
Wade, to watch the colour come to her cheeks, and 
was shocked to see the tears mount to her eyes, instead. 

“Everybody,” he added swiftly, to make her smile, 
“everybody wants to look at you. Why shouldn’t 
they? You don’t know how lovely you are, Isabel!” 

Expect Isabel to accept without daily flinching, the 
life of a Marie Lezynsky? 

And he would accept life on no less honest terms 
than Korniloff, and there you are! 

Before the winter was quite done with its rigours, 
she persuaded him to resume the meetings at Hyde 
Park. The Achilles statue seemed to be offering a 
welcome to them when they came; a gentle sun was 
shining— 

Any two people can drift at lunchtime into a park, 


186 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


and take a penny seat without others questioning their 
right to be there. Not strange at all to find one’s 
seat shared by some one else. And if she moves to 
give one room, or drops a paper or book that one 
must pick up for her, what more natural then than to 
find oneself speaking of the approach of spring, or 
of the book being held in one’s hand? Shabby sweet¬ 
hearts are always meeting in a park! No one paying 
any attention, to shabby folk, in a park. 

“Except,” said Isabel one day, “except that old 
woman in the old black dress, and the untrimmed hat. 
Have you noticed how she hangs around, as though 
she were trying to hear what we say?” 

“I never see any one else when I’m with you,” re¬ 
sponded Graeme. 

“I’m serious.” 

“I’m more serious.” 

“She never seems to look at us, to see us, but she 
prowls so near us! I’ve been watching her. Before 
you came. She listens to other people, too. She 
never hangs around any one who is alone.” 

“It mustn't get on your nerves, Isabel, our meeting. 
Don’t you really think it is of a piece with your fear 
of the guides, dear?” 

“It isn’t just us,” persisted Isabel. “Watch her, 
prowling. She is heading here now. Go right on 
talking. But watch her, out of the corner of your 
eye.” 

“I have heard of poor wretches who earn a living 
that way, ferreting out people’s secrets, sad and 
naughty secrets, and selling their silence, blackmail 


OVERTONES 


187 

you know. Here; in London parks and theatres. 
But obviously, we have no money. We are safe from 
that sort of thing.” 

“Watch her now,” whispered Isabel. 

The old woman was creeping near them, staring at 
the ground. As though she had lost something; bent 
over; searching. Her gait suggested feebleness. 
She looked the sickly relict; out for sun and possible 
pickings. 

“And that is most likely her business,” decided 
Wade. “People are always leaving things, always 
forgetting umbrellas, and hankerchiefs. A high class 
ragpicker, probably. We needn’t be afraid of her. 
If you would like, though, we could meet somewhere 
else for awhile. Kensington?” 

“It’s farther for you, and your time is so short.” 

“Short, indeed! No time to begin anything. All 
beginnings! Everything waiting for Kew!” 

Though she had told him to watch the old woman, 
he left that for Isabel, for he himself was watching 
her. It had struck him that she was unusually pensive 
that day. As though the brave mask were still 
there, but no smiles were underneath! He exerted 
himself to interest her, to get her mind off the 
worries she was determined to keep to herself. Sev¬ 
eral times her pretty laugh answered him. 

But on the way back to the office, he was analyzing 
the merry responses of his Isabel, wondering why he 
had felt a sadness, and asking himself if perhaps it 
was only that he had that day more truly caught her 
overtones. Was not always that smile of hers like 


188 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


winter sunshine? Plucky sort, Isabel! Did his 
patience seem bloodless to her? He was going to find 
out, at Kew! 

He asked her, though, before then. What did she 
think about a man’s duty, first? Could it be decently 
chucked for a new, if closer interest? About work, 
writing, too. Was he perhaps wrong, did it seem 
wrong to her, his determination to keep his writing 
free ? 

More than anything he wanted from life, was her 
happiness, which meant her freedom. But it had to 
be a real freedom; she had to be placed far enough 
away to be out of his reach. But that would take 
money. Was there anything she thought he could 
do, should do, things she could see, and he didn’t? 
Write the stuff they call potboilers, things which don’t 
require study to prepare, yet don’t get you anywhere? 
Perhaps he could write the cheap sort of stuff one 
sees in the cheap journals; perhaps he couldn’t. 
He’d read that some people make a jolly failure of 
it. He fancied it was just a trick, of splitting up 
ideas into small pieces, and letting one’s self rip! 
But what does it mean to one? Ruins one style, 
and for what? But he had to know something from 
her. Was it so hard for her, staying, should he give 
up the bigger chance, or was it bearable? 

Oh, it was bearable ! He must surely go on study¬ 
ing, getting ahead. He must not write drivel. Sup¬ 
pose he failed drivelling? Lost the Globe, Jepson’s 
confidence, Mr. Fackenthal’s—fell into a worse kind 
of rut! 

“You are such a comfort, Isabel, dear!” 


OVERTONES 


189 

But afterwards, again her overtones! The wist¬ 
fulness which had somehow crept to him! Bearable! 
Bearable! 

“Surely,” she cried, “that was snow on my face! 
It is snowing! Who said spring was here?” 

“I’m thinking ‘damn!’ The papers did say this 
morning that we were in for a storm. But I’m only 
just here, and the snow sends you home! Ride down 
with me! It isn’t fair, only five minutes out of a 
week!” 

She went all the way to Fleet Street with him, keep¬ 
ing the same direction for a few squares after he left 
her, lest any one, old woman, or another, had been 
watching them. 

In the crowded ’bus, both of them were quiet. 
Both of them thinking the same thoughts? He won¬ 
dered, and turned to get a look at her, catch her off 
guard. Her sweet smile was ready for him. Think¬ 
ing of the spring which was lagging? Of the lilacs 
and the river? Of the day they were to spend to¬ 
gether, one out of a lifetime. With nobody listening, 
no shabby, loot-picking women with curious ears and 
rusty untrimmed hats! Far from those clamouring 
clocks of London! Their one day! 

Snowclouds now blowing in shamelessly; snow- 
clouds. Winter still regnant; spring a long way off! 

It had to be spring, achieved, before he and Isabel 
claimed their holiday. They would not force it; forc¬ 
ing it would spoil it. Kew in the rain, or the cold 
winds blowing? Having to crowd close to people in 
’busses and boats ? 

The scene was to be set for their day, when Pippa 


190 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


passes ! Their day of stored rebellions ! Sybarites, 
epicures, they were, about that day at Kew. Their 
precious truancy must not be chilled by weather. Be¬ 
fore, for days before, sunshine, to bring out the lag¬ 
ging almond blossom and the yet unlocked lilac- 
blooms. Sunshine that day on the river, and for that 
pageant of wild flowers! Of course, they must see 
Hampton Court and Kew in their bridal array; the 
bursting of early buds; the earth’s resurrection. 

“It was surely worth waiting for!” 


CHAPTER XIX 


SPRING A.ND YOUTH 

S PRING came running upon London, cutting 
capers like a rough, blustering boy; nothing 
tender about it yet, nor romantic. It was still 
impish, finding sport in reddening noses, in carica¬ 
tures of wind-blown clothes, of hats whirling through 
space like a falling star, costing each owner a seat on 
the ’bus, if happily not a hat, perhaps! But at least, 
the thin-blooded sighed, it was here, and the long 
winter was ended. Soon it would be getting warmer. 
The magic days were on the way. 

Those whom the gods seemed to love were letting 
their fancy play in Wales, in Scotland, or on the 
beaches; they were dreaming of boating, of tennis and 
polo and golf, and planning new styles of clothes. 
Those forgotten by the gods were being thankful that 
the coal bills would not be so heavy, promising their 
families a trip to the city parks, or even, if luck were 
kind, and no doctor’s bills had to be again incurred, 
a journey to Hampton Court or Kew. 

Every time they met, Graeme and Isabel added 
fresh expectations for their day at Kew. All the un¬ 
finished topics were to be completed there, all the hur¬ 
ried histories then to be leisurely compared. Graeme 

had a new plan, he told Isabel, for her future. They 

191 


192 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


were going to discuss it, lengthily, on the river. But 
this much, now! 

He wanted to get her away from her life; she must 
know that, didn't she? But how could he do it, now? 
He wasn't earning nearly enough yet. But that was 
his objective. As soon as his writing began to bring 
in something, if not much, at least surely and stead- 
ily, he was going to send her away somewhere, hide 
her, care for her. He wanted her to be relying on 
him for that, not letting herself get despondent or 
hopeless. He was afraid she had been letting wor¬ 
ries nag her lately. Could she trust him? Had she 
faith enough in him to know that he was planning for 
both their lives, for her freedom as well as his? And 
moreover, could she believe that much as he loved her 
it was possible for him to take her away, from her 
husband, going out of her life himself, except to love 
her always, and to write her as often as she would 
let him? 

‘‘But I couldn't accept that," she argued. How 
could she take money from him, like that? 

He ridiculed her, though tenderly. “How we have 
to cling to the old notions! Must it be a bargain, an 
arrangement! Why can't a man help a woman as 
freely as though she were a man, Isabel? Why can’t 
a man and woman who love each other in the best 
sense, w T hy can’t they steer free of the old material 
superstitions? I believe, Isabel, if we should abolish 
marriage as we know’ it, today, we would at once set 
about to make new ironclad conditions of money and 
property. It’s all based on that, you know. The joy 
of working for you -would be my reward. Would it 


SPRING AND YOUTH 


193 


be harder, taking money from me, than—” He 
stopped abruptly, seeing the ashamed colour flood her 
face. He was painfully conscious that she turned her 
head from him that he might not see the tears which 
had started to her eyes. 

“Isn’t it all befogged,” he pleaded to the averted 
head, “the truth, the ideas we stand in awe of?” 

“The money part always is hard,” her face was still 
turned from him. “I’m going to tell you sometime, 
maybe at Kew, why it is so hard.” 

They had so many things to tell one another! 
Her eyes were stealing back to his. “A day will be 
too short!” Her expression halted him a moment, 
then he rushed on. “Will you be thinking out the 
plan? It may be a long time off, but won’t it give 
you more courage to meet the days, Isabel?” 

“There is no place in England you could hide me. 
He would find me. He’s like that. He never stops 
till he finds what he has lost. No place you could 
hide me,” she reiterated. 

“Then it doesn’t have to be England. Why not 
France? Why, of course, Paris! He would never 
find you there.” 

She was so still that he wondered why. She sat 
silent, staring at the trees which were beginning to 
cover their stark outlines with prophecies of leaves or 
swelling buds. He could not see her eyes again, only 
the smooth curve of cheek and adorable chin. 
After a few minutes had passed, she asked him if she 
were never to see him? Would he never come to see 
her over there ? 

“It would depend,” he hesitated, watching what he 


194 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


could of her face, “it would depend on how much I 
earn. Oh, once in awhile, of course. And I would 
write—” 

“Of course, you would write, every day, if it were 
only a line. I want to know about your life, to be in 
it every minute. I was just thinking about what you 
said a few minutes ago, why a man should help a 
woman as freely as though she were a man. A man 
would let another man—start him. I’d be willing for 
that. It won’t cost as much as you think, helping me. 
Getting me started. Working, of course, too. I’ve 
often wanted to—but I had no way of getting started. 
I’ve thought so much about it, that part of it, the 
money part. Women ought to be independent, it 
should be easy for women to be independent, that’s 
the heart of the problem; we will talk about that some 
day!” 

“At Kew,” he wheedled, to bring her eyes back to 
him, and there they were, creeping slowly back to him. 
“We’ll talk about everything, that day on the river. 
I want to show off to you, then, that there is one thing 
I can really do well; that I can row!” 

Her eyes were disturbing. They were telling him 
that they thought he could do everything well. 

Strange to have any one look at him like that! As 
though he amounted to something. As though she 
adored him, Wade Graeme! 

Subduing his pulse, he went back to his program, 
blocking it out for her. His hour was nearly past. 
She was to meet him at Chelsea, the Friday of the 
following week, only five days away now. They 
would meet on the boat, as though a casual happening. 


SPRING AND YOUTH 


i95 

Then they would go to Hampton Court, or wher¬ 
ever the fancy led them. No cut and dried imprison¬ 
ing plans for them, that one wonderful day! If by 
chance they saw any one they knew, they could sepa¬ 
rate, as though chance fellow-travellers. If such an 
untoward thing as that should happen, they could go 
on alone, each of them, to Kew. Suppose they agreed 
to that now? No matter what happened during the 
day to separate them, they would go at once to Kew? 

And wait there until the other came. 

They were so engrossed, Isabel listening, absorbed, 
Graeme busily working out the program, that neither 
one of them noticed the little woman with the un¬ 
trimmed rusty hat when she slipped into the seat next 
to Isabel. She had sidled up, noiselessly, as though 
looking on the ground for something she had dropped. 
Graeme saw her, he remembered later, saw her with¬ 
out giving her a thought. Few people, he told Isabel 
afterwards, would give a second glance to the ob¬ 
scure humble figure, hunting, as she seemed, through 
the dust for a dropped penny. 

“If the unforeseen should happen,” he reminded 
her, “they would go back, she to Bird Place, he to the 
office, after waiting oh, not more than two hours? 
But nothing,” he added, “was going to happen. Ev¬ 
erything was going to be all right, their beautiful day. 
It was to be Friday because that was his lodge night, 
wasn’t that the reason they had chosen Friday? 

“He almost always takes dinner downtown, on 
Fridays,” contributed Isabel, guiltily crimsoning. 

“Is there any reason why we shouldn’t meet, on the 
river, once in a lifetime, why I should not steal a day 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


196 

from the office, the first in eight years?” He was 
trying to make her smile, to look happy before he 
left her. He couldn’t leave her with that shamed, 
unhappy flush on her face! They weren’t planning 
anything to be ashamed of. No reason they could 
not tell Alma and Blood what they were planning if 
custom had not trained them into thinking that mar- 
lied people should never go anywhere unless together, 
that anything else is wrong. Fancy telling either 
Alma or Blood that they were planning a Puritanic 
jaunt! Why, neither of them would believe it! So, 
there you are! 

“You forget your trip to Paris!” 

“That was different, going with my chief. Alto¬ 
gether different!” 

His shoulders squared as he rose looking down 
upon her sweet, uplifted face. Discovering all over 
again how superlatively sweet she was, how miracu¬ 
lous her love. He could never get stale to their 
astonishing relation. Her sympathy, her sweetness, 
her memory of everything which concerned him, al¬ 
ways touched him, humbled him. How wonderful it 
was! He must always compare her loving trust with 
Alma’s lack of it, Alma whose memory was used only 
to trap and confound him. 

No relation, the world would say, if it believed 
what was the truth; what was going to be the truth. 
Just loving one another, believing in one another, and 
helping one another. She was the poetry of his else 
drab life, she was the grace, the stimulus, the music. 
Away from her, time was reckoned by their last meet- 


SPRING AND YOUTH 


197 

ing, and the next. Why was it then, that with her 
he could be so calm, so elder-brotherly, for it was not 
that way he loved her! As though they had spent 
years together, long understanding the other, long 
thinking together, so that when apart, each was only 
half alive. When together, satisfied; talking of little 
things; of prosaic plans; of simple hopes and fears. 

He told himself, looking down on her, scanning the 
dark shadows on the cheeks which were too thin for 
health but not for beauty, that he was glad for her 
sake that spring was at last come. A fear was press¬ 
ing on him. Perhaps the friendship which had given 
such pride, such strength to him was bearing too hard 
upon her? Had he brought to her, perhaps, only the 
unrest of realization? 

“If I thought so—” he lowered. 

“What would you do, then? Only I haven’t the 
earliest idea what it’s all about,” she confided to his 
sober eyes. 

“I don’t know.” He kept staring at her. For 
what could he do without her? Could he conceive 
of life, now, without her, once having sensed the rich¬ 
ness of life with her, the girl who had got caught in 
the fibres of his life? She was his work, the best 
of it, and his anchor. She was his beacon light, his 
refuge. She was all the things he had dreamed of, 
as a boy; and later, as a man, riding over the Karroo, 
or dreaming, at night, on his back, watching the stars 
wheel. How could he let her go? 

“My wireless isn’t working. I don’t know what 
it is you would or wouldn’t do!” 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


198 

“Just the precipice I reach once in awhile,” he 
evaded. She knew, indeed, what he meant by the 
precipice! 

It was late! He must be going. Did she remem¬ 
ber it all? They would meet at the boat; separate, 
if they met any one; and returning, they would leave 
the boat at Chelsea, taking the rest of the trip by 
’bus, as strangers, sitting side by side; greedy he was 
for the last scrap of the day, that twilight ride into 
London. To the casual observer, and did they know 
many others? but an accidental meeting on the top of a 
London ’bus. 

She watched him out of sight. But when she rose 
to go, her neighbour, the little woman of the un¬ 
trimmed, rusty hat, rose too, and drawing close, thrust 
her wizened face close to Isabel’s. 

Her highpitched whisper whistled in Isabel’s fright¬ 
ened ear: “Going to tell the ’usband of the naughty, 
pretty lady! She was. Hit would take money, beg¬ 
ging her not to. Hit would. The lady wouldn’t 
want ’er ’usband to know!” 

Shaking, irresolute, Isabel stood for a moment, 
looking to see if any one had heard, if any one were 
watching her. Incredible, that this should be happen¬ 
ing to her! Things like that never happen to people 
like her! Incredibly vulgar and terrifying! She was 
afraid to run away, for the old woman might make a 
scene in the park, she hated to have to listen to the 
hoarse innuendoes of the professional eavesdropper, 
for that she knew now she must be. 

Though her reason told her that the woman would 
not know where she lived, would not know where her 


SPRING AND YOUTH 


199 


husband worked, or what his name was, still there was 
a chance that she had already fortified herself with 
that knowledge. How did she know but that she had 
been followed home from one of these meetings with 
Wade? One of these sweet, holy meetings with 
Wade! It shook her with indignation the thought 
that any one would dare impute evil to these innocent 
talks. But were they innocent? Custom makes it 
wrong for a woman to meet by design another woman’s 
husband. Would her husband think it innocent? 
Why, then, was she shaking with terror for fear that 
he would be told? 

The wrinkled face pushed closer to her own. 

“Want to ’ave the ’usband know hof the good- 
looking lover, has ’ow they were planning to give ’im 
the slip? She didn’t want to do that. Two pounds 
will let you horf!” 

“But I haven’t that much, not nearly,” cried Isabel, 
crushed. If she had it, she would give it gladly to 
get away, to get free of this! How could she con¬ 
vince the terrible old woman that she did not have 
it, that she never had that much money at one time? 

“You ’ave, Hi know. That pretty purse of yours! 
’E horter whip you, a child like you, so knowing! 
Two pounds!” 

“I really haven’t it!” wailed Isabel. “I’ve only 
three shillings.” 

“Then the ’usband ’as hit,” said the old woman. 

A sudden, desperate idea came to Isabel. 

“But—I’ ve got it, at home! I’ll give it to you, 
there, if you’ll come with me!” 

The penny hunter looked at her dubiously, as 


200 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


though suspecting a trick. She wasn’t going to be 
tricked by a baby like that! 

“Come home with me. No one’s home at this 
time. I’ll give it to you, there,’’ repeated Isabel. 

She started off, a little in advance of the eaves¬ 
dropper who was still suspiciously eyeing her. Then, 
as Isabel kept on walking, she hastened after her. 

When she reached the street, Isabel turned. “We’ll 
take a ’bus.” 

“Which one?” 

“Not this one.” For she had to let at least one 
go by. It would be too obvious pretending to want 
the first one that came. The old woman would see 
through that. 

She let several pass her. A group of people were 
standing near them. She saw a ’bus bearing down on 
them, and many of the group moving forward for it. 
This was her chance, a desperate one, she knew. 

“This is ours.” She pushed as though to get ahead 
of the crush. At the step, she turned suddenly, taking 
the old woman’s elbow, and helping her to mount. 
Just as she had planned, those she had outstripped 
came in between her and the old woman. She stum¬ 
bled, as though she had turned her ankle. She made 
helpless gestures, as though trying to regain her place. 
She let herself be elbowed away. 

She prayed for the ’bus to start. For she could see 
the woman trying to push her way through the in-go¬ 
ing stream. She could see her wrangling, struggling 
to get off, and the 'bus starting. Isabel turned, and 
like a frightened rabbit ran in the opposite direction. 

A ’bus was following her. She ran to the next stop- 


SPRING AND YOUTH 201 

ping place, and got aboard, breathless, just as it 
started. 

The old woman was nowhere to be seen. 

She changed ’busses several times on her way home. 
But nowhere did she see the terrible old woman in 
the untrimmed hat. In the tube, and on the street, at 
the crossings, she kept looking fearfully over her 
shoulder to see if any one were shadowing her. No 
one seemed to be following her! 

Several times, she thought of writing to Wade; sug¬ 
gesting that they change the day, and place. But 
Wade always laughed at her fears. London was not 
a village, he would say. How would the old woman 
know who she was? 

Every time her husband came home, she would look 
at him fearfully to see if he had been told. She felt 
sure that she would know if he had been told. He 
would try to trap her, or make some other plan for 
Friday. 

On Thursday, tremulously, she told him that she 
was going into the suburbs the next afternoon, to see 
the blossoms. Everything depended on that next 
minute, all the plans they had been making through 
the long winter weeks. She held her breath until he 
spoke. 

He was astonishingly complacent about it. He 
asked her if that meant she might be late getting 
home ? 

She thought that she might be late getting home! 
She wondered if people who really sin feel any worse 
than that! She had chosen a moment when he was 
reading his paper, and she was gathering up the din- 


202 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


ner dishes to take them into the kitchen. She did not 
know whether he were looking at her or not; she 
wanted to look at him, to see, but dared not. She 
knew her face was crimson. 

“Friday night’s lodge night,” he said. And that 
was all. 

Nothing more said about it. It had been astonish¬ 
ingly easy. He did not allude to it again, not before 
the fire, when he had finished reading the paper, and 
turned an odd, contemplative stare upon her, as though 
discovering how really pretty she was, nor when they 
were getting ready for bed. He must have forgotten 
it, she thought. 

As she was brushing her hair, he came up behind 
her, and looked in the mirror at the reflected girlish¬ 
ness. He held out his arms to her. “Getting to be 
some looker, Isabel!” 

She shivered. 

But at least, he did not oppose her taking a trip 
into the country. Nothing had been said to him. 
The old woman did not know who she was. Things 
like that don’t happen to poor people, as Wade said. 
They can’t pay enough to make it worth while. But 
they would not go to the Achilles statue any more. 
They would have to find a new meeting-place. 


CHAPTER XX 


“COME DOWN TO KEw!” 

T HEY met, the following Friday morning, at 
Chelsea, self-consciously, both of them, for 
this was a new sort of meeting. It savoured 
of running away. As though, he thought, they were 
going to the continent, to Italy; to bury themselves 
in America. All of the things they were not going to 
do were in his mind as he saw her coming towards 
him. Not late. He had been afraid that she might 
have to be late. 

He discovered his two tickets in his hand. Openly 
waiting for her, forgetting to be clandestine, so re¬ 
lieved that she did not have to be late! 

She did not meet his eyes in the old, frank way. 
Had she had a hard time getting away? Did she 
have to lie, too, to explain the day’s absence? He 
thought it was that which was clouding her eyes. 
She liked truth as much as he did. Nothing, they had 
often said, was worth lying for. But when it’s only 
one day out of a lifetime that you are to have to¬ 
gether—still, that would not take the sting of reproach 
away from his Isabel. 

Run away with that type of woman to the continent? 
To give happiness f that sort of life which would 
mean one lie after another, until tongue and soul 

grew callous? Outcasts, they would be willing to be, 

203 


204 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


for each other, if that were the sum and end of it. 
But it wouldn’t be the end of it. Every day a new 
lie, and by and by, perhaps lying to each other! Not 
that. Not that for Isabel. 

They went aboard solemnly, finding seats on the 
deck, and sitting beside one another in constrained, 
conscious silence. And they had so much to say to 
each other! So much to say that one day was not 
enough. And here they were losing it, afraid to be¬ 
gin! 

Two tickets, connoting spring, and youth, and a day 
on the river! Budding spring and youthful revolt! 
The day life owed them! 

The face felt new which turned to her demanding 
that Isabel look at him! 

Her face was new, too! Radiance emerging from 
her shyness. It was something older and sadder than 
shyness, he discovered, getting the truth from her 
face, or from their sixth mutual sense of sympathy. 
He saw her smile at him with deliberation. He knew 
what she was saying to herself: that she was not going 
to spoil his great day for him. A fine self-control 
had Isabel! 

Their day! Spring here at last, and they on their 
way to Kew! 

Their eyes met with a shock. Something went 
wrong with his breathing. He felt as though he had 
been running. He found himself saying that he was 
glad she was late, not knowing until her laugh rang 
out that he had not said that he was glad she was 
not late. Then the echo of his words came to him. 
Wonderful to be laughing aloud with Isabel! 


“COME DOWN TO KEW!” 


205 

He realized then that he had never heard her 
laugh before. It was a short, sweet cadence, ending 
abruptly, as though unpractised. His Isabel! If 
he could only bring laughter into her life! Nothing 
he wanted to do so much as that; to give her the joy 
that does not turn to ashes. But he could never give 
her that. England, and custom, and Alma, were 
against it. England and Alma would say “Cleave 
only unto Alma.” And custom would say: Ashes, if 
you must, but lie about it, cover it up. 

Those were not the thoughts for their day on the 
river! He was going to match her self-control. 

Never, he thought, had he seen her so beautiful. 
And now that the influence of the home-leaving was 
gone, suddenly electric, triumphant. Her eyes, meet¬ 
ing his, were radiant, disquieting. 

He had noticed the freshness of her dress; had she 
made a new dress for Kew? He had seen her slender 
ankles as she had sped up the gang-plank, stock¬ 
ings matching her low shoes; he now realized her 
hat, lilacs on a grey straw; of course, lilacs for 
Kew! 

Her beauty abashed him. He wondered why it 
made her happy to hear him stammering like a routed 
schoolboy ? 

Their seats were in front. Isabel explained that 
she liked to watch the landscape being made, not all 
finished, and running away from her! He had never 
thought of it that way before, but of course, Isabel 
would want to see it being made ! 

“Did you bring your verses?” 

“I’m afraid that you will think them awful rot!” 


20 6 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


“I want to hear them, now.” 

“I’ll never have the courage to read them to you.” 
They had grown suddenly trite, those outbursts 
scribbled in tubes and crowded ’busses. For such 
an acute critic of poetry! 

“Then I’ll read them.” 

“Not yet. I want you to be seeing everything.” 

“I know this part of the river. I want to read 
them now.” 

It was a new, imperious Isabel. He surrendered 
his manuscripts. With deep anxiety, he watched her 
as she read them. He himself flushed as he saw the 
colour creep up her face, staining the tearose pallor of 
her cheeks. Pride, was it? It looked like happy 
pride, the glow in her marvellous eyes. 

He bent over her to explain why he had had to 
sacrifice that line— 

“Why, that makes it perfect. Of course, you had 
to sacrifice it, breaking off like that, it shows the shock, 
the interruption. I knew you could do it. I knew 
it!” 

“You think I have.” He felt humble. If he had, 
it was her achievement, not his. His work, but her 
stimulus, her influence. 

“I wonder if you know how fresh it is, how new? 
It is so unconscious, not strained.’’ 

“What a darling you are, Isabel!” 

“Say that again!” 

“What? Darling?” 

“But not that way.” 

“Not on this boat, this kind of a boat!” 

“In the other boat, will you, really?” 


“COME DOWN TO KEW!” 


207 

Enchanting, this new Isabel! But her words con¬ 
fused him. She wanted him to tell her, why, she 
had known, she had always known 1 Her glance set 
his pulses racing. 

“I’m not sure what I will say when I have you all 
to myself.” 

She buried herself in his verses. But he knew 
that she was equally conscious of his nearness, of the 
brushing of their sleeves, of their uneven breathing, 
of the boat waiting at Kew. 

A woman with a noisy flock of children took the 
seats next to him, and he was pushed closer to Isabel, 
close to the slender sweetness of her girlish body. 
Almost in silence, arms touching, side by side they 
went on to Hampton Court. Once in a while, tremu¬ 
lously, she would point to a new shade of green in 
the shrubbery which ran down to the waters’ edge, or 
to a blur of fruit blossoms on the bank, and each time 
their eyes met with that sensation of shock: looks that 
day stripped naked! 

At Hampton Court, they essayed sightseeing, but 
it was a feeble effort, for the river was calling to them. 
Graeme suggested abridging the sightseeing. Isabel’s 
step had begun to drag. He did not want her tired 
before the day began. 

He had a little speech ready for her as he would 
place her in the boat: about this being the real be¬ 
ginning of their day; that in that boat she belonged to 
him; the world with its customs, other people, all 
banished, untrue. Nothing existed but themselves, 
for that hour. But the boatman hung around, re¬ 
peating his instructions as to the way the boat must 


208 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


be sent back from Kew—Wade leaped into the boat 
and shoved off. 

He rowed as in a fury of haste. He had forgotten 
his threat to be vain of his skill. He was in a fever 
to get her away from people who hang around; 
from pests of boatmen, and museum guides, and old 
women in parks; from wives and husbands, from all 
the policing which makes such a life-giving friendship 
seem wrong. 

He awoke suddenly to the spectacle he was giving 
her. 

“I’m running away with you, Isabel!” 

She smiled back at him. 

“Aren’t you afraid? For I want to! I want to 
carry you away from all the things which hold us 
back there. I want to kiss you, to hold you in my 
arms, to keep you,—and instead—” 

“Instead?” 

“I am going to row you soberly to Kew. And eat 
lunch with you, somewhere, with everybody looking 
on. And I am going to talk sober plans with you, 
about work, and money-making. I am going to take 
you home without even kissing you. But you will have 
to stop looking at me, Isabel!” 

“Yes?” said Isabel, looking at him. 

Their eyes clung together; he was forgetting to 
row. 

“Where are you going?” she cried. 

For he had made a sharp turn, and was heading 
for a spit of land which was covered with willows 
and tangled shrubbery. 

“I’m going,” he answered, without looking at her, 
“to break that promise, part of it, as fast as I can!” 


CHAPTER XXI 


THE SENSE OF HOME 

A LANDING had once stood there, running out 
from the bank. Nothing was left of it now 
but one rotting post jutting up from a mesh 
of matted weeds in the iridescent, stagnant water. 
Heavy undergrowth concealed the bank’s edge. As¬ 
pens and willows trailed their branches in the stream. 

Graeme speared the weeds with his oar, then pulled 
himself to shore by the long branches. He laid his 
oars carefully in the bottom of the boat, tying his rope 
to the old blackened post. 

Looked like a hag’s tooth—making similes? Going 
to let the writing habit trick him at his moment of 
deepest living? He was to hold for the first, the last 
time, the woman he loved in his arms, he was to hold 
her sweetness close, and here he was consciously seeing 
pictures, making images! How could his senses, 
tingling towards their tryst, record the details of its 
setting? Whereas never before had they been so ac¬ 
tive, so acute. One would think he would remember 
nothing but Isabel, sitting in the boat! 

As he was fastening the boat to the blackened post, 
he was storing away a vivid picture of the stagnant 
water, of the swirl where the running stream stopped, 
caught by the arm of land, by the fingers of growing 
things; he was conscious of the bright insolence of the 
opposite, planted side of the river, of the beckoning, 

m 


210 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


luring loneliness of the tree and shrub-covered point. 
His ears, too, were noting the wild bird calls, mate 
calling to mate. His nostrils were discovering an 
aromatic herb, something he had a name for, when a 
boy. His senses sharpened, rather than dulled. 
Queer, how a man’s mind works. And Isabel sitting 
in the boat! 

It was a brooding, deserted spot. Nature, it would 
seem, was encouraging them, encouraging all lovers, 
urging the tryst— 

He hadn’t planned this in London. He’d intended 
to talk things out; to plan. No chance in London. 
Twelve o’clock always getting to be one o’clock in 
London! Intended to talk of Paris, of calm, orderly 
plans. And they would, too. But not until he had 
held her in his arms, breathed her fragrance, met 
that challenge of soft daring— 

Strange, he thought, how calm he felt. Calm and 
deliberate. Because youth was past, he could lesson 
his pulse like this— He stretched out his hand to 
help Isabel over the treacherous mat of boughs and 
slimy growth, and found his pulse racing, pounding 
like a dynamo, under her soft fingers. 

His hand tightened over her wrist. He steadied 
her over the mat of boughs and grass, and was lead¬ 
ing her carefully to solid ground, to the bower of 
greenery and filtering sunlight, when she broke from 
him, and ran fleetly up the bank. 

Frightened her. He wasn’t going to frighten her. 
He was going to hold her just once in his arms. Once. 
And then London, and duty, the daily rut again. But 


THE SENSE OF HOME 


21 I 


richer, endurable the rut would be for the memory of 
Isabel held once against his breast. 

She turned and looked down on him. He lost a 
heartbeat. Her radiance, her youth startled him. 
She was holding back the branches which had con¬ 
cealed an old path. Standing there, smiling down 
on him, the girlish arms outspread to hold the 
branches back for him, with the sunlight stencilling 
leaf-patterns on her face and hair, and putting imps 
of daring into her eyes. 

Not frightened. But waiting as does a victor for 
his cup, or his wreath. Her wistful pathetic girl¬ 
hood she was dropping as a discarded cloak. A 
woman was looking at him. She might have been 
posing for a race-goddess, this radiant, joyous Isabel. 

He would never forget that picture of her. She 
called forth worship and humility. That superb 
creature loving the poor little clerk of Fetter Lane! 
Standing among the branches, smiling down on him, 
he staring up at her, adoring her. Instead of rush¬ 
ing to her, gathering her in his arms, watching her, 
printing her image thus for ever on his mind, that he 
might always so possess her, summon her to him. Or 
was he steadying himself, doubting, he demanded, his 
own captaincy? What was it warning him that he 
did not know himself; that his strength had never been 
tested ? 

A branch snapped, breaking his tension. He 
bounded up the bank, and she was in his arms, held, 
straining, against his heart. Bursting that breast of 
his, so full of love for her! 

Holding her, kissing her, again and again. As 


212 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


though each kiss held the joy of the first, the poignancy 
of the last. Joy and forebodings! Greetings and 
farewells. Holding Isabel against his heart—letting 
her hear what it was crying to her. He had never 
known what life meant, what joy or woe meant, until 
that throbbing moment. 

“Talk?” He smothered the poor little word with 
kisses. Plenty of time by and bye. Time, later, to 
say all the things that poorer mortals have to speak, 
to be heard. But for that minute, silence and rap¬ 
ture; soul meeting soul at the touch of lonely lips. 

Through the tumult of his brain a thought was 
pushing. The husband of Alma, husband of another 
woman, he should be feeling guilty, disavowing his 
loyalty to her. Instead, this stupefying sensation of 
achievement, of completion. The old scorch of shame 
of a false relation gone, and in its place, triumph. 
All the ideals of starvation, asceticism, proved false 
by this blaze of santification ? 

What was the truth his soul was seeking? 
He seemed to be reaching higher, towards something 
better and nobler than Wade Graeme. He, husband 
and father, with another man's wife in his arms, find¬ 
ing it the holiest moment of his life. What was 
wrong, with himself, or with the world and its teach¬ 
ings ? 

Something Korniloff had said to him came into his 
mind— 

His burst of laughter shocked his own ears. Little 
wonder it startled Isabel! She pulled herself away 
from him, questioning him with her tender eyes. 

He made his way to a fallen branch, and giddily, 


THE SENSE OF HOME 


213 

like a man who has been drunk, and suddenly sobered, 
seated himself, looking at Isabel. 

“Lies, Isabel.” 

“Lies?” 

“The things they tell the mob, the things we follow, 
cling to and believe!” 

Not sure that she understood him yet: watching 
his face; asking him— 

“It was like being alone in a church, before the 
crowd comes in!” 

A flash of joy ran over her face. He meant that! 
She came to him, and knelt at his feet. 

“I know. I was reading something like that, the 
other day. ‘It is the sense of home in another soul 
that gives to love its chastity.’ Home, here, Wade. 
Back there, it’s wrong for both of us, for all of us, 
and knowing it, why it poisons everything. Trying 
to pretend it’s right, and it can’t be made right, where 
love isn’t. Just shame, and pretending—” 

He took her face in his hands, and turned it up to 
his, letting the sun shine upon the truth of the sober, 
steady eyes. 

“The sense of home!” 



CHAPTER XXII 


ON THE RIVER 

A LONG time it takes, going by rowboat from 
Hampton Court to Kew, if a girl is in the 
boat, a girl with lilacs on her hat! When 
Graeme had pushed away from the point where the 
landing had once been, he found that it was too late 
to carry out his program. They decided to take the 
boat back to the boathouse at Hampton Court, where 
they reconciled the boatman to the change of plan by 
a generous gratuity. And they took a train for Kew. 

They were so late for the luncheon hour that they 
called it high tea. Disregarding the opinion of the 
waiter that they were forcing the season, they ordered 
their tea served on the porch. He brought them 
some toasted buns, and some fussy cakes, and later, 
little chocolate-covered wafers. Business was dull 
so early in the season, so he hovered about them like 
a restless hen, insuring a respectable gratuity. 

Graeme demanded marmalade. Did Isabel like 
marmalade? Or would she prefer strawberries, Bar 
le due? Isabel adored strawberries, Bar le due. 

Like healthy young animals to whom romance is 
yet a definition, they devoured everything brought to 
them. The waiter eyed them curiously; he had al¬ 
ready changed his mind several times about them. 

“I wonder if he will consent to tear himself away 

214 


ON THE RIVER 


215 


from you after he clears the things away?’ 1 speculated 
Graeme, his eyes resting on the lips he had kissed, 
the brow, the soft tearose throat that had not been 
denied him. His Isabel! How rich he felt! Strong 
enough now for any struggle, because of her love 
for him, her faith in him. He wanted to get rid of 
the staring fellow that he might tell her again of the 
strength she was giving him. 

“If he can be snubbed, I’d like to sit here awhile, 
wouldn’t you? Aren’t you tired?” 

“A little,” she confessed. They had walked more 
than they realized, at Hampton Court, and then from 
the Kew station, and around the gardens. And, more¬ 
over, the waiter had told her that there was music at 
four in the hall, for the tea drinkers. It must be nearly 
that now. She would love to listen to the music, with 
him! 

“We will,” said Graeme, thinking that he was listen¬ 
ing to music then. No matter what law or custom 
said, those sweet lips were his. Hadn’t she told him 
so? Told him with her eyes, as well as with the words 
she spoke aloud; told him with her mind, the way it 
spoke to his. Told him, too, that she was afraid, of 
her life, the weeks ahead of her, afraid of her husband. 

Her terrors chilled him. To a certain martyrdom 
he was condemning her. Yet what else could he do? 
Was there anything to do but patiently to follow his 
plan? He did not have enough to take her away 
now, start her securely in Paris. Not enough to take 
them both there, to install her safely, and to bring 
him back. Galling fact, poverty! 

Trying to reassure himself, he told her that it would 


2 1 6 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


not be long before he could send her there, if they 
decided she would go alone. But he hated to think 
of her going to a strange place alone, getting started 
alone. Since she wanted to work, they did not need 
so much money, and it was right, her wanting to work, 
although it had not occurred to him. She should be 
independent; every woman ought to be financially in¬ 
dependent. Those fellows, the ones he'd met through 
Hobbs, Korniloff and the rest, are right about that. 
Any bargain based on love is sordid and vulgar. 

He wondered why her cheeks flamed, why her eyes 
did not meet his. 

“Korniloff puts it so clearly. As long as love is 
made a commercial transaction, people will pretend 
love who do not feel it; people will stay together who 
would not otherwise. And if one is a hypocrite about 
anything, he will be untrue about others. Do you 
think a man, or woman, who would lie about love, 
would not lie in business, about anything? We are 
just beginning to realize that honesty is all of one 
piece, we're beginning to understand something about 
character, about mind-habits.'’ 

He waited for her to answer him. When she did 
not speak, he asked, uneasily: “Can you be patient 
for awhile? Can—can you bear it, Isabel?” 

Still silence. It filled him with forebodings. She 
always spoke with reserve of her husband. She did 
not like to talk of her life. It made him flinch to 
think of letting her go back to it—to her husband. 
His shamed uneasiness grew as he watched her face. 
Not to be able to help her, having to stand, and watch 
her pass by, with that look, of dread, in her eyes! If 


ON THE RIVER 


217 

he had made anything out of his life, weren’t the fail¬ 
ure he was, he could help her to get away, help her 
until she was independent; he suspected that she never 
had enough to carry her farther than Regent Street 
without making a special request, and explanation. 
Just like himself, for that matter! 

But being a man, it was worse; unmanly and shame¬ 
ful, not having anything of your own to help a fellow- 
creature who is in distress. Even if you didn’t love 
her, you would want to help her. But because you 
love her, it isn’t right to help her. Right, on the 
other hand, to send her back to the man she shrinks 
from, is afraid of—wasn’t she afraid that first night? 
Not even his shamed cowardice, at home, had ever 
filled him with the impotent humiliation which was 
scorching him that instant! Sitting there, watching 
her brave misery, and bye and bye saying: “Thank 
you for loving me, and now it is time to go back to— 
him!” 

“He isn’t cruel to you, Isabel?” 

“Cruel?” she seemed to be balancing the word. 
“No, not cruel.” 

He wasn’t satisfied. But he couldn’t go on. The 
waiter was bearing down on them with freshly baked 
cakes; substantial ones, as though he realized that 
this meal was also their lunch, and wanted them to 
understand his sympathy. 

Impatiently, Graeme asked: “We don’t want any¬ 
thing more, do we?” 

She shook her head. 

“Clear these things away in a hurry.” His tone 
carried the suggestion: “And yourself, too.” 


218 THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 

The tone and the fee made the waiter change his 
mind again about them. He cleared the things and 
himself away in a hurry. 

Graeme was returning to his questions, but she 
stopped him. 

“All the other things we wanted to talk about, wait¬ 
ing. All the great day wasted!” 

“No, not wasted. Not that time of revelation of 
what life might mean to people who love and under¬ 
stand one another. Understanding is the thing out of 
which the great love grows. Lesser loves may grow 
understanding, even a great understanding, but it’s apt 
to be one-sided.” 

He would never forget that hour in the shrubbery 
—loving her, adoring her, but guarding her; not will¬ 
ing to make life more miserable for his Isabel. 
That’s what love means—ought to, making life easier, 
not harder, for the one one loves. 

But he was troubled to the depths of his soul. 
Thankful, before that morning, for her friendship, 
and her love, for knowing her, even, and for the 
chance of their meagre meetings. Wonderful privi¬ 
lege, it seemed, back in the drabness of London, to 
have her life touch even so distantly his own. But 
now, it was different; since he had held her in his arms, 
had strained her to him, had felt her answering kisses 
on his lips, it was all changed. And it was going to 
be different. Because life inexorably pushes forward. 
He wanted to be kissing her now; he would want to 
be kissing her tomorrow: he would want to be kiss¬ 
ing her until both were safely dead. 

“Yes !” she answered him, smiling. Something told 


ON THE RIVER 


219 

him it was an effort, that she was trying to cheer him. 
“I know. But say it aloud!” 

Tell her that that other emotion, back in London, 
had been only the forerunner, the threat of love? 
That this was love at midstream, no mistaking what 
this was, the current which had so nearly carried him 
out to sea? 

So many new charms this day had the new Isabel! 
Gestures of joy, of grace. He had watched the play 
of thought over her eyes as she read; watched her 
handle the things the waiter brought her, making eat¬ 
ing into an art; watched her as she charmed the waiter, 
himself; watched her as she drew her gloves on, the 
gloves he was going to take off as soon as they were 
alone once more, in the gardens waiting below! 

“At least,” he said, “we have had one day together, 
for memories.” 

Her voice was so low he could scarcely hear her. 
“Not—for beginnings?” 

He wished she would look at him. Sometime, they 
would have another day like this, and he would find 
a place where they wouldn’t feel like a nursemaid and 
her policeman—surely, there were places in London 
where they could meet—decently. 

“There isn’t a place in London,” said Isabel, 
solemnly, “there isn’t a place in the world where we 
won’t feel like a nursegirl and her policeman, where 
we won’t feel dishonest, and cheap.” 

He waited for her to raise her troubled eyes to 
his. 

“It’s a question, not of where we shall meet, but of 
how we shall let ourselves feel about meeting.” 


220 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


Even yet he was not sure of her meaning. Until 
she lifted her eyes to his— 

“Oh, I can’t go back to him, Wade!” 

Only half a man! Seeing that look in her eyes, and 
not being able to comfort her! Not being able to 
protect her—her eyes telling him her dread— 

“I’ll work hard, fast,” he said miserably. “I’ll 
make enough money as fast as I can!” 

“Have I got to go back to him tonight? Oh, 
Wade!” 

He could not answer her. 

“I’ll be poor; I will work, do anything, anywhere, 
if I don’t have to go back to him tonight!” 

All drooping now, his Isabel, like a flower, up¬ 
rooted, in the sun. 

“What else—can we do?” Shackled, as he shame¬ 
fully was! 

“I can’t go back to him, Wade. I ought not to go 
back to him, and I know why. I have been read¬ 
ing, some of the books on that list you gave me; and 
even before. It isn’t just my own instinct; or my own 
selfishness, calling it my instinct. Other people know T , 
too, that it’s wrong. You knew, too, back there, on 
the river, where the wrong is; that it’s wrong staying 
together where there is no love. I know why I hate 
my life. I should hate my life. I hate myself for 
having made it what it is.” 

“Is there no—comfort,” he began miserably, “no 
comfort in knowing that we are doing right, according 
to what is expected of us—Our instinct of right, of 
wrong, runs away ahead of the crowd, of the customs 
it made.” Wasn’t that all he could do, try to lessen 


ON THE RIVER 221 

her sense of shame? Didn’t he know what it was, 
that feeling? 

“I think all wives have had the same feeling, al¬ 
ways, all wives,” she added, “who have sold them¬ 
selves.” 

“Isabel! I can’t have you look like that!” 

“Like—Lucrece ?” 

It was a blow between the eyes. His hand went 
out, as though to fend off the next thrust. 

Seeing the effect of her words on him, she cried out: 
“Oh, I’m sorry, Wade! But it’s true. I loathe my 
life, because that’s the truth about it. I’m not 
blaming any one but myself. I saw what he was, and 
married him. An alternative. May I tell you about 
it, why I married him?” 

He tried to make his eyes lie to her; to keep her 
from knowing how she had hurt him. As though he 
could ever deceive Isabel! He said he wanted her to 
tell him. He had often wondered. His voice did 
not sound to him as his own. 

“If you could see Annersley. If I could make you 
see Annersley, our Shropshire Annersley! I think 
you would know why. Mother and I used to laugh 
at it, in the beginning. It hadn’t awed us then, as it 
had itself, by its own beliefs, customs, by the custom 
of marriage, most of all. One was married, or un¬ 
married, a woman, lucky or cursed, in Annersley.” 

She was staring at her hands lying clasped on her 
lap. 

“Mother had intended that I should learn a trade, 
or some profession. It seemed all right to Mother, a 
Frenchwoman, the plan that I should some day take 


222 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


care of myself. Before we went to Annersley. 
After Father’s death, we went there, where his people 
were. Mother could earn money there, they wrote— 
until I was ready, until I had finished school. But 
before that, her illness began. I had to stop 
school—it used to worry her, my having to take care 
of her, instead of getting ready to meet the world, as 
she called it. I used to see the fear in her eyes when 
she looked at me. I wasn’t afraid then, for the girls 
I knew in Annersley were not getting ready to be in¬ 
dependent; they expected, the pretty ones, to get mar¬ 
ried. The others, the unlucky ones, helped the lucky 
ones in their homes, or took boarders, if they had a 
home—oh, there were so many pitiful boarding houses, 
old-maid boarding houses in Annersley! Marriage, 
or failure, that was what life was for a girl in Anners¬ 
ley. There were not enough boys and men to go 
round. So many dreadful old maids there, girls who 
had waited, hoping! It affected me, in one way; 
mother in another. It frightened us. Did you ever 
see a place like Annersley?” 

“I fancy it’s typical. That’s our system. It works 
out all right for the ones inside, sometime,” said 
Wade, correcting himself. “But it crushes the ones 
who don’t get in, who get under!” he added. 

“There wasn’t any time to learn anything. Each 
month, there was more to do for Mother, and the 
money we had was getting scarcer, the doctor’s bills, 
the medicines! I used to pretend that I couldn’t find 
any one to help me with the cleaning; it would have 
frightened her to know how low our fund was grow¬ 
ing. Wade! I want you to know that it wasn’t work 


ON THE RIVER 


223 


I was afraid of! It wasn’t that! I used even to 
scrub the floors. Afterwards, my aunt took me to 
her house. She meant to be kind; she was as kind as 
she knew how to be; but she had daughters, too, and 
she was frightened, the Annersley way. It was only 
a temporary refuge, I understood that. I was to be 
looking for something to do, before the money gave 
out. There wasn’t much left. Not enough to start 
a boarding house! 

“The girls talked of marriage, of having a home 
of their own. They would have married him in a 
minute—” 

“You mean—Blood?” He could not bring him¬ 
self to say: Your husband. 

“Oh, you won’t like me when I finish telling you 
this! See how I am trying to save myself! Pitiful 
little devices ! Telling you it wasn’t work I was afraid 
of, and that other nice girls were willing to marry 
him!” 

Not like her! Was there anything she could do or 
say which could keep him from loving her? As she 
talked, he was picturing the girl at Annersley; and 
loving her. With his whole soul loving her! 

“Strange!” said Isabel. “The world judges us by 
the choice we make, condemns us if we make a mis¬ 
take, but if we discover the mistake, we’re sinners!” 

He could see that she did not like to tell her story. 
Wouldn’t it wait for some other time? 

She had to get finished with it now! 

“He was travelling then; for some firm, a hard¬ 
ware firm. He used to come to see us, Mother and 
me. He seemed so old; I used to think he came to 


224 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


see her; I never thought of him that way, not as my 
friend,” she stumbled, and hesitated. 

“There was a long time when I did not see him. I 
was with my aunt. I had learned to know Annersley 
better, to be afraid of it, of life. Those poor girls of 
Annersley, Wade! They only wanted to live, to have 
the chance to live. The ones they used to talk about 
there, they did not plan to do wrong, I am sure they 
didn’t. One girl—this happened before Mother died 
—went to London to work; to be a nurse. She never 
came back. After awhile, people stopped talking 
about her. Her family never spoke of her. It 
wasn’t right to speak about her! Some one saw her 
here in London, and told Mother about her, when I 
was in the next room. I often wonder if I will meet 
her on the streets. I want to meet her. I am no 
better than she is—I mean I was worse than she was— 
for she loved some one, maybe, really loved him. I 
was—only more businesslike.” 

It was spoiling their day, this story. He wished 
she did not want to tell it. But it w r as on her mind; 
she had to share it with some one, the poor, lonely 
Isabel! 

“The other one, another girl I knew, went to Lon¬ 
don, and came back; with a baby. It was terrible, for 
me, her coming back just then. My aunt had been 
wanting me to live with a friend of hers, like a mem¬ 
ber of the family who does all the work. I wanted 
an honest job—I had been telling my aunt I was 
coming to London, when that girl came back with 
her baby! They had been asking: What sort of 
work was I going to do? And why I had to come to 



ON THE RIVER 


225 

London? And then, that girl with her baby. Once 
when the talk got so bad, I went to see that other girl, 
and she told me about it; how hard it was for a girl 
all alone to be straight, how people don’t believe you 
want to be straight. It seemed easier to stay in 
Annersley, and to grow bitter and old.” 

“You poor child!” The orchestra had started to 
blare. Graeme was straining not to lose any of Isa¬ 
bel’s low, halting words. 

“Just then, about then, he came back, Mr. Blood. 
The Annersley girls were crazy about him. They 
were crazy about any man. All the boys worth look¬ 
ing at left Annersley, sleepy Annersley, their first 
chance. I overheard my aunt telling my cousin Anne, 
one night, to get him away from me. Not quite so 
crudely! And it came to me then that I was disre¬ 
garding the only chance I had of getting away from 
Annersley. I didn’t want to be one of those starved 
old maids, caught, trapped by life, piecing out other 
people’s lives; looking after other people’s babies when 
all they wanted was one of their own!” 

When all they wanted was one of their own! 

“That was a terrible night. I never slept. I was 
afraid he might go without seeing me, and never 
come back. I was afraid he might discover that he 
liked Anne, who didn’t shiver away from him when 
he touched her hand! I made myself face the picture, 
myself taking care of Anne’s babies, and I thought of 
the girl who never came back, so the next day when 
he came to see me, and asked if he might take a bride 
back with him to London, I shut my eyes, Wade, and 
said he might. I wasn’t so frightened, then; I 


226 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


was relieved; and he was kind to me. After that 
dreadful night of fear, anything else seemed safe. 
And people didn’t think it wrong in Annersley to 
marry some one you didn’t love. I didn’t know I was 
doing wrong—” 

“You weren’t, dear.” 

“Yes, I was, but I didn’t know it, in words. No 
one had ever told me about loving being the only thing 
that makes it right. I felt it was wrong, but I 
deadened my feelings. There was so much excite¬ 
ment, and I began to feel important. He was kind 
to me, then, and patient. And afterwards, too. 
After awhile, he didn’t stay home much. He used to 
like other women. I know. He left letters around. 
I grew not to mind. It left me alone, and I was glad 
to be alone.” 

They sat, staring away from the other, while the 
orchestra whirled out a waltz tune. Life, for some, 
a waltz, for the few a waltz, with Annersley and 
Bird Place marching wretchedly along! 

“You see, I had to tell you. I did it with my eyes 
wide open.” 

Both of them had done it with their eyes wide 
open, she at Annersley, he at the Cape. If one could 
call it having their eyes open! They were being pun¬ 
ished now for their ignorance; for not having acquired 
enough knowledge about that terrible indissoluble re¬ 
lation. 

The orchestra slipped into a tune all London was 
humming. The eyes of the man and girl met; in one 
long, drowning gaze they met, until hers fell. 

The air sobbed its way out. When it was done, 


ON THE RIVER 


227 


Isabel cried: “When we come to the end of a perfect 
day, then what? Oh, Wade, let’s get away from 
here!” 

He led her down into the garden. He could feel 
her trembling, sobbing. He found a sheltered place, 
and again he had her in his arms, against his breast, 
comforting her. 

'She whispered: “Wade, is this what God meant?” 

“It isn’t God’s plan! It’s what we’ve made it. 
You said it, darling. You said you did wrong in 
marrying him. That’s where the wrong is.” 

“Does it make it right, the going on with it, going 
on doing wrong?” 

“Shouldn’t a promise mean anything?” He was 
repeating the arguments he had been having with him¬ 
self, trying to see if they held. “All our human re¬ 
lationships rest on that, the belief that a promise means 
something. Suppose we could disregard at any minute 
an arrangement, a contract, and say: ‘It was a mis¬ 
take,’ or ‘I’m tired of it,’ where would society be?” 

“Society ought not to make people promise to love 
forever—” she paused, crimsoning. 

True, indeed. The old laws matched the old ethics; 
there were no laws for the emerging morality. But 
hadn’t they promised to love when they knew it was 
impossible?— He broke off, bending to kiss her eye¬ 
lids. “I’m not preaching to you, Isabel! I’m in it, 
with you! Our customs are like a game; we have to 
follow the rules, play it square. That’s as far as I’ve 
reached, that we have to play it square.” 

“Then if that’s right, it’s always going to be the 
same?” She tried to pull herself away from him. 


228 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


“People will go on playing the game fair, and knowing 
it’s wrong? And most of them cheating, rather than 
tell the truth about it, tell the reason the rules are not 
fair?” 

Straight to the bull’s-eye, that question! Unan¬ 
swerable, too! 

“If it’s true, right, what you say, then we’d have 
no progress!” cried Isabel. 

“There are two ways out of it,” Graeme frowned. 
“Martyrdom, a lot of martyrdom.” He would hate 
to lead his Isabel to that! “A lot of the people who 
would scorn you, make your life miserable, would not 
be half as good, as honest, as you. People who pre¬ 
tend to live respectable lives, pretend to be satisfied 
with our social system. And the other way—cheat¬ 
ing, secret orchards—” 

“And you—wouldn’t—love one who was willing to 
be a martyr?” 

He had to look away from her, from her tear- 
washed eyes before he could answer her. 

“I’m not going to let you be a starving outcast, 
Isabel!” 

“There’s no honourable way out of it?” she whis¬ 
pered against his breast. 

Did she know, he asked himself, how he loved her? 
Did she guess that he was yearning that minute to 
gather her up into his life, carry her away from her 
fears, daring poverty and dishonour? Forgetting, re¬ 
nouncing his family, forgetting tomorrow, forgetting 
everything but Isabel? 

“The only honourable way,” he answered, conscious 
that his words were sounding wooden and sanctimo- 


ON THE RIVER 


229 

nious, “is to live together openly—saying, tacitly: 
‘The laws of England are bad. We cannot live up 
to them, and we refuse to lie about it.’ If people 
knew us, enough people, then we might think we were 
helping things along, encouraging progress, as you 
said. But we’re not. And we haven’t the money to 
do it, if we felt we should. I have—duties. Di¬ 
vorce is out of the question, you know that, my dear? 
Alma has never done anything to make that possible, 
nor will she ever. You might get one—you say you 
have had cause—but have you proofs? And what 
good would your freedom do us, were I bound,—dar¬ 
ling!” For he felt her droop in his arms. He 
wondered if she were keeping anything from him. If 
there were only some way which would spare her! 

“We must go—back—now,” she said. 

She let him kiss her, eyes, brows and lips, but it was 
an acquiescence; it had the flavour of a farewell. As 
moonlight to sunlight this surrender to that glad morn¬ 
ing response! 

He was buying tickets for Chelsea when she re¬ 
membered the old woman. 

“Not Chelsea. Battersea Park, Wade.” 

He tried to persuade her that Chelsea would be 
better for both of them. 

“It must be Battersea Park! I’ll tell you why on 
the boat!” 

On the boat, she told him. She had meant to tell 
him, she explained, the first thing. How their day 
had flown! 

Could the old woman, she asked him, have known 
where she lived? But she felt sure she had not been 



THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


230 

followed. Or where he—her husband, worked? Sup¬ 
pose she had gone to him with her story, wouldn’t he 
be waiting for her to get off at Chelsea? 

“Did I say—Chelsea?” He was frowning over 
the effort to remember just what it was he had said. 

“I think, Wade, oh, I am sure that you said Chel¬ 
sea. Would you mind very much sitting inside? We 
could see, and not be seen.” 

The ride home was a failure. Isabel forced a 
wintry gaiety, but it did not last. She fell into a pen¬ 
sive silence. He talked to her of Paris, and she tried 
to answer his plans. But he could see that she was re¬ 
sisting the return, that she was thinking only of her 
homecoming. 

They were nearing Chelsea, when she leaned close 
to whisper: “The end of a perfect day, Wade!” 

“Wonderful it was for me, darling. Don’t look 
so tragic! Just one smile for me to remember! 
Why, is this Chelsea? What is it you wanted me to 
do?” 

“If he should be there, watching, and doesn’t get 
on, we will go on to Battersea Park,” she reminded 
him. “If he should come aboard, could you slip past 
him, leave me here? He would never remember you, 
if he did not see us together.” 

He left her side at once, for the boat was pulling 
towards the slip. No terrors had the old woman for 
him. It was simply a threat, a cheap threat. One 
she would have no way of following up. Not unless 
she knew Isabel by sight, had followed her there— 
His darling was full of tremors. His gift to her, 
those terrors! 


ON THE RIVER 


231 


He pulled his hat low over his eyes, and got into 
the thick of the crowd, striving not to lose sight of 
Isabel. He could see her, scanning the faces of the 
crowd on the pier. Her eyes were darting like a 
swallow’s wings. He saw a look of relief fall on her 
face, to be followed by a flash of fear, of recognition. 
He followed her gaze and saw Blood making for the 
gangplank. Once again he looked at Isabel. She 
was standing, as though frozen, waiting— 

Nothing for him to do but to get off. He mustn’t 
be found on that boat. 

He passed Blood on the lower deck. Blood did not 
recognize him. He was making hurriedly for the 
stairs. 

Abominable to have to leave Isabel to that man’s 
anger! Like the embrace of the Iron Virgin, his task. 

He looked around the dock for the old woman with 
the untrimmed hat. She was nowhere in sight. 

Dully—he made his way towards his own home. 
Going home, he told himself, because he could see her 
light. He could creep out of his house once in a while 
to see if her light were burning, if they had come home. 
H is mind was in a torment. He wished he had run 
away with her. But where would they run? How 
far could they get on the money he had? And Blood 
would find her. She said he was that kind. 

“ ‘Is this what God meant?’ ” 

He let himself into his cheerless house. Alma was 
setting the table. 

She had not expected him quite so soon. He had 
told her a later hour in order to cover possible contin¬ 
gencies. 


232 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


Someway, he got through with the sordid meal. 
Somehow, he managed the chronicling of the next lie, 
that he had to get back to the office. And then the 
cool air on his face, and the pavements of Bird Place 
and Haberdasher Street. Until midnight, the pave¬ 
ments of Bird Place and Haberdasher Street, and the 
sharp spring winds on his face. 

There was a light in the upper room of Isabel’s 
house. 

For hours that light kept burning. It sent a pale, 
wordless message to him. 

At least, she was there; near him. If she cried out, 
he could hear her. What consolation in that? She 
would not cry out. If she did, nothing would keep 
him from her, not God himself. 

At midnight, the light went out, and Graeme crept 
back to his house, and to his second-hand bed. 

The mocking, torturing air was still haunting him. 
It followed him to bed, and kept him awake into the 
morning hours: “The End of a Perfect Day!” 


CHAPTER XXIII 


jepson’s dinner 

D uring the miserable week which followed 
the river trip, a letter came to Graeme from 
Jepson, inviting him to dine at his apartments 
on Monday evening. Fackenthal, he added, was to be 
there, and an old friend, Hornbrook, of Oxford; 
sociology; just returning from Munich. 

Gratifying to be included in an intimate affair like 
that. Asked, of course, as a friend of Fackenthal’s, 
but gratifying just the same. A high-brow evening. 
Hornbrook of Oxford; he’d seen his books in the 
libraries. 

How could he talk of new books and theories of life 
with his mind left behind, prowling around Isabel’s 
windows? He would be an owl and a bore. He de¬ 
cided that he did not want to go, and it was several 
hours before he remembered that Jepson was the door 
to opportunity and freedom. He sent a letter which 
said that he was delighted to accept. 

But he couldn’t put by the nagging thought that he 
might be doing something to help her. Go bluntly 
to her house, and take her away with him? Blood 
would be cruel to her now all right; something told 
him he was being cruel. It was unbearable, the 
thought of Isabel unhappy, helpless. 

The duty of a man with a wife and child of his own 

233 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


234 

to save another woman from her husband? Put into 
words, it sounded fishy. If she were starving, 
wouldn’t it be right to give her bread? Wrong, on 
the other hand, not to? If she were freezing, 
shouldn’t one toss her a coat or a blanket? Well, 
wasn’t she starving? Wasn’t she freezing? 

It’s loving her,—then, that makes the difference? 
If one did not love her, one might allow one’s self to 
interfere. “Not right to come between husband and 
wife”; even if hatred has already come between them? 
Haven’t advanced far enough yet, we haven’t, we 
don’t recognize hate yet as cause for separation, 
don’t see that hate turns the relationship into slavery. 

One can protect a woman from a brute on the street 
—if she isn’t married to him. Marriage makes it 
impertinent to be humane. 

Very sternly must it be reasoned out, in order to 
understand the deep meaning, or reason, of our 
civilized customs ! Very sternly indeed! No wonder 
Korniloff’s kind puts marriage in the list of needed 
reforms, with child-labour, suffrage and the rest! 
The last one to come, they say. For happy people 
won’t admit it’s slavery. Because it isn’t slavery, if 
both are happy. Love doesn’t only make it respect¬ 
able, love alone makes it humane! 

Swinging off the ’bus one evening at Haberdasher 
Street, arguing it out with himself, his glance isolated 
a shabby old woman who was climbing into the ’bus 
opposite. He placed her instantly. The eavesdrop¬ 
per of Hyde Park, the prowler, without question, that 
woman, and going away from Bird Place? What 
was she doing there? He forgot to move on. He 


JEPSON’S DINNER 235 

stood watching her, staring from the curbing after the 
’bus which was lumbering down the street. 

It wasn’t possible that Blood—no, even a man of 
his stripe wouldn’t stoop to such a thing as that! 
Set a woman like that to watch Isabel, to spy and tell 
on her? His blood ran hot with anger, and then 
chilled with wretched helplessness. 

How was he going to find out about it? At the 
office during the hours that Blood was away. Her 
leaving at that hour suggested the truth of his 
suspicion. How was he going to know that it was 
true? And then, what? 

Read, study, with the thought of Isabel being mewed 
up, and spied upon? He couldn’t read; the words 
mocked his eyes. Walking made the night endurable, 
walking round and round the square, peering under 
his hatbrim at her reticent windows. 

The day before the Jepson dinner, a note found its 
way to him, in her handwriting. It was handed to 
him in the outer office, by Gryce. He got away to the 
rest room, all the blood in his body, he thought, in his 
face. 

It read like a telegram, the message of one in a 
hurry: “Be more careful, I’m being watched. Don’t 
worry.” 

Don’t worry! Angel heart of her! 

Like dikes giving way, the breaking of the tension; 
his relief was like reservoirs overflowing. 

She was getting out again, not alone, evidently; had 
managed to edge close enough to a box to drop the 
letter in; or had had an unguarded moment with a 
tradesman. The envelope could tell him nothing, not 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


236 

even that it was a complete victory, its getting to him! 
But it wasn’t so hopeless, for she herself wasn’t hope¬ 
less. Or she wouldn’t have warned him. Perhaps 
she thought if they were both careful and patient the 
guarding might soon end? 

She had seen him passing the house, watching her 
windows; she knew, then, how anxious he was, she had 
not felt deserted. The courage, that message of hers 
put into him! 

He was able to read that night; for the first time 
since Kew did not prowl around her house like a 
hungry pigeon. And the next day, Sunday, at the 
office, he managed to turn out the first paragraphs 
which were not given to the wastebasket. He even 
managed to get up some anticipation for the dinner at 
Mr. Jepson’s. 

Fackenthal was in the hall, being helped out of his 
overcoat when he entered. They went in together. 

Hard to believe that these scientific tomes he’d un¬ 
earthed in the Public Library had been written by the 
simple person to whom Jepson was presenting them. 
He had the sunken eyes of the student, and that was all. 
His manner was that of a truant schoolboy. 

They stood for some time around the fine fireplace, 
until Graeme began to wonder what it was they were 
waiting for? Machinery never goes wrong in 
establishments like this, he was thinking, when he 
overheard Jepson saying to Fackenthal that he was ex¬ 
pecting another guest, a friend “who had just blown 
in from New York.” 

Hornbrook had just made the discovery that 
Graeme knew some of the socialist leaders. “Know 


JEPSON’S DINNER 237 

them personally? That’s interesting. I knew the 

'Munich fellows. Met a few of ’em in Berlin.” 

\ 

The American was ushered in, and Wade discovered 
that they had all been drooling. Couldn’t be prosy 
and leisurely with that dynamo in the room, that was 
what he was, a dynamo! Droll, the lazy way he 
moved, the leisurely manner of rolling a cigarette! 
Everything was slow about him, except his eyes, they 
were electric; they betrayed the inner man. 

Superb type, Street, the American. Made one think 
of the crouching strength of a panther! Not in a 
hurry to speak, but hearing everything; ready to 
pounce on the thing he wants— 

Cocktails being carried in, American cocktails, in 
honour of the American. Going to have steins on the 
table for Hornbrook? The talk turning to Man¬ 
hattan and Martinis. Shows what a mole one has 
been not to know a Manhattan from a Martini! 

At the table, they had discussed Germany, her mil¬ 
itary system, her social evils, her war preparations, 
and the meal was well along before Hornbrook re¬ 
called his desire to know more about the London 
socialist. He had already made the statement that 
socialism was the only thing which might prevent a 
general war in Europe, and he wasn’t sure about that. 
Later, he wanted to ask about New York. But first, 
London. 

“Yes, I go to their meetings,” admitted Graeme. 
He had just been thinking of Korniloff and his crowd. 
Why was it when his views coincided with those 
fellows, his opinions matching theirs at almost every 
point, why was it then that he should feel so much 


238 THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 

more at home with Jepson and his friends? As 
though he were sojourning, was his feeling at Korni- 
loff’s, at Laflin’s. 

“Yes, I go to their meetings. I go rather regularly 
to a place in Leadenhall, almost every Monday eve¬ 
ning, in fact, to get a talk or two. Some pretty fair 
talkers among them.” 

Street it was who discovered that it was Monday. 
He declared himself to be one variety of socialist. No 
one but Street would have thought of suggesting that 
they hasten their meal in order to “take in” the 
Leadenhall meeting. 

Hornbrook abetted him. Fackenthal, too, said 
that he was interested. Jepson made it a condition 
that they would return to his rooms for coffee and ci¬ 
gars. 

Graeme followed them from the dining-room with 
regret. He was wishing that he had not mentioned 
the Leadenhall gathering. He liked the rambling 
talk of these travelled, informed men. Especially 
liked Street. He wanted to hear what Hornbook had 
begun to tell them before he recalled his interest in 
socialism; the perfection of the war-machinery, the 
hordes of grey uniformed men. Hornbrook said he 
had seen them drilling out of Berlin; masses of them; 
seas of them. “They could overflow Europe.” 

Also, he liked the luxury of the rich-hued dining¬ 
room. He resented being hurried on somewhere else. 
He could go to Leadenhall any time. Always being 
hurried on somewhere. The age of hurry. Get 
settled anywhere, and some one discovers that you are 
comfortable, having a good time, and some one else 


239 


JEPSON’S DINNER 

discovers a taxi is waiting, or a friend’s machine to 
take you somewhere else where you won’t be so com¬ 
fortable ! Jepson’s plaint! 

“Our system?” He could hear Street preparing to 
answer Hornbrook. 

“We’ll have to be getting on,” announced Jepson, 
leading the way to the hall, “if you want to go to that 
meeting.” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


THE HOLY ESTATE 

A N undersized Jew with a hint of Cockney in 
his over-fluent speech was holding the plat¬ 
form when the Jepson party entered. The 
group had to separate, Fackenthal and Graeme taking 
seats behind their host and his other guests. 

The little man on the platform was making a bit¬ 
ter indictment of the marriage system. Graeme sup¬ 
posed it to be a section of his topic, part of the 
general social rebellion, but as the talk progressed, he 
grew restless. He had nodded as he took his seat, 
to Korniloff and Marie in the seats behind them. 
He leaned over the back of his seat to ask: 

“How long has he been holding forth? 1 ’ 

“Just begun. About three minutes before you 
came in. He’s long-winded. But stay through it. A 
fine speaker’s coming after him; from Moscow.” 

“Is this his subject, marriage?” 

Korniloff nodded, his black eyes beaming at the visi¬ 
tors Graeme had brought. He was in tune with the 
speaker, Wade knew. 

He was for leaving at once. They had not come 
for this. He spoke to Jepson, bending forward. 
“Perhaps they could find another place? He had a 
friend who would direct them.” 

“But this isn’t bad stuff!” returned Jepson. 

240 


THE HOLY ESTATE 


241 


“They’re interested.” He nodded his head towards 
his friends. “They don’t care what the subject is, 
as long as it’s insurgent. Look at Street!” 

The American was vividly listening, nodding his 
approval, through a veil of cigarette smoke, of the 
hurtling points of the speaker. 

“Wait awhile,” suggested Jepson. “They’re not 
bored. I like the little fellow myself.” 

The speaker was hurling relentless facts and figures. 
Is a system a success, he was demanding, if its success 
depends on the systematic sacrifice of those who can¬ 
not force their way in? Did they want to know how 
many thousand girls find their way weekly into the 
nightlife of London? He’d tell them! Want to 
know how long they live afterwards? Well, he’d 
tell them. Want to know who keeps ’em? The un¬ 
married men? No, the men of families, men over 
forty. The sanctity of the home preserved by the 
wealthy holocaust! Women of the home being pro¬ 
tected, their morality being specialized— “We’ve got 
to protect motherhood, instead of wifehood.” 

“You’ve got to face these things. Got to know 
what it all means, and how hypocritical it is when the 
cities get an attack of virtue and go to housecleaning. 
What do they do? Send the girls somewhere else. 
And they come back when the attack of virtue is 
over.” 

“You can’t fight it that way. London tried it 
awhile back. Diminished those ghastly figures any? 
Every year getting bigger. We’ve got to find a differ¬ 
ent way. Got to make marriage less selfish, less ex¬ 
clusive, more honest. Got to legalize all children. 


242 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


Some humane nations are already doing that. That’s 
a housecleaning that would mean something.” 

Graeme was watching the faces of his old and new 
friends. He felt the responsibility of the expedition. 
None of them responded to his anxiety, so he leaned 
back again in his seat. 

“What effect would this have on marriage?” the 
Jew was demanding. “If all children were equal, all 
had equal property rights, wouldn’t the hypocrisy die 
down which protects ‘my child,’ or ‘my children’? 
We say marriage isn’t a financial arrangement, but see 
us run clamouring into court the instant a father or 
mother leaves over a shilling to anyone outside the 
family! It will never be honest when it’s on that 
foundation. It’s got to rest on integrity.” 

He began to wander. He spoke of Germany, 
where marriage was made impossible to hordes of 
underpaid soldiers. “And the nameless children— 
why they made better soldiers, anyway, says the 
Kaiser. Make better soldiers! When do we begin 
to talk about making better men?” 

Graeme could see Hornbrook deliberately forcing 
the applause, and keeping it going. Trying to make 
the audience as well as the speaker see that it was 
the climax, in the opinion of the professed eugenist, 
of the little Jew’s talk! 

The speaker had to stop to accept his ovation. It 
surprised him. He had not planned this to be his 
apex. He had been letting himself be carried along 
by his own invective. Graeme knew his type by this 
time. Clever; would grab now at his opportunity; 


THE HOLY ESTATE 


243 


make that his topic—the making of better men. And 
there he was it, already, enlarging his theme, talking to 
Hornbrook and his kind who were swift with their ap¬ 
plause. But suddenly he launched out into a tirade 
against the British divorce laws. This was to have 
been his subject. He wanted divorce to be free. 
The poor man, and the decent man couldn’t afford 
divorce, only the rich and reckless. 

“I think we’ve had the cream of this,” suggested 
Jepson, turning in his seat to address Graeme. Horn- 
brook had just yawned. 

Graeme jumped up eagerly. He rejoiced, as he fol¬ 
lowed Jepson and Fackenthal out of the smoke- 
darkened room, that the evening was not over, that 
they were returning to those soul-resting rooms of the 
editor’s. 

He was going to hear more good talk. Makes 
time pass too swiftly for worry, hearing talk of that 
quality. Can’t wear one’s mind out in fruitless re¬ 
bellions when men like these are debating. Have to 
keep one’s brain trimmed, have to put Isabel farther 
back, as it were in a back seat, telling her to wait 
patiently—no, vividly, always eagerly waiting, his 
Isabel! 

Liqueurs and coffee and cigars, and a great fire 
of logs roaring on the hearth! Makes one forget the 
fog outside, and the outcasts stranded in the fog. 
Keeps one from being a true socialist, a room, a fire¬ 
place like this. Fireplace of the Italian renaissance. 
Isabel could tell him about the furniture; he fancied 
it was Jacobean— 


244 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


Street was standing in front of the fire, his long legs 
apart, his Indian eyes roving from face to face, his 
lithe, long, stained fingers rolling a cigarette. 

Always rolling cigarettes, Street! And brown pa¬ 
per. A fad, he wondered? Liberals, Street’s revo¬ 
lutionary kind, are usually poor. He couldn’t tell 
anything by his careless picturesque dress, serge street 
clothes, morning clothes, soft shirt and a flowing tie. 
One would take him for an artist, in London. 

It startled him to have Street’s stare rest on him, 
to be singled out by the American. 

“You wanted to cut and run, the first shot!” he was 
being accused. “Just because it was unpleasant. Of 
course, it's unpleasant to listen to it. Vastly more 
unpleasant to be caught by it. And what’s the reason 
you and I are not caught, that we happen to have 
felicitous lives? chance, pure chance.” 

His mind darting irresistibly back to Isabel, at Kew. 
“Just more businesslike. / made a better bargain.” 
Then the American’s hazard caught him; felicitous 
life! He avoided carefully Fackenthal’s eye. 

“That’s the reason you’re at a standstill in this big, 
little island of yours. It’s the reason we don’t go 
faster in my country, though we’re not at a standstill. 
We’re developing new folkways, acquiring new cour¬ 
ages, we’re working towards uniform laws, and higher 
ideals, though all of us don’t know it!” he grinned, 
showing a row of even, nicotined teeth. “Nobody 
wants to hear or talk about it. As some one said here 
this evening, I think it was Mr. Fackenthal, nobody 
can tell the truth about it. If there’s a God listening, 


THE HOLY ESTATE 


245 


he must have a sense of humour the way we treat law, 
especially this law—the way our lips and ears only 
respect it! Burrowing, all of us like ostriches, hiding 
our ears and our eyes in the sand, painfully horrified 
if we hear any one saying our bird morality isn’t 
honest!” 

He pulled out his little book of brown papers and 
his cotton sack of tobacco and began rolling another 
cigarette although only half finished the one he was 
smoking. It was a habit, not a pleasure, smoking, 
with Street, one could see, thought Graeme; he wasn’t 
conscious enough of his motions to make it a pleasure. 
Interesting to see how he could hold his cigarette in 
the corner of his mouth, getting out clearly pronounced 
words by a rolling habit of the lips! Wager he didn't 
know he was doing that, either! 

“When a family scandal leaks out, that proves what 
I’m saying, what the little Jew said. What do all 
the friends do? ‘Nobody home!’ Think they 
want to be subpoened? Thank you! Testify against 
a fellow ostrich? Sure enough about 'their husband 
ostrich, or their brother ostrich, or even so, what 
about that skeleton of their youthful home! Every 
little ostrich frantically conscious that there may be a 
glass house hit! What judge or jury can be impar¬ 
tial? If a man’s life has been soured by following 
what he considers unjust laws or customs, he’s going 
to be strict with the one who’s trying to evade them— 
If he has defied custom, he’s going to be afraid to be 
lenient. It’s typical of the entire public’s attitude 
towards the situation.” 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


246 

“Well,” drawled Hornbrook, establishing himself 
more obscurely in his deep, cushioned chair, “you’ve 
stated your case; what’s your sentence?” 

Street rolled his mobile lips. “It happens I can 
speak candidly on the subject. I’ve lived candidly. 
I’m willing to tell you what I think’s the matter with 
this incestuous marriage of ours. You asked for a 
sentence: I won’it condemn, I’ll prescribe. Train 
deliberately for marriage, as for the highest relation 
this side of heaven; make it a calamity, or disgrace, to 
fail in it. Aren’t we judged by the friends we keep? 
Why not the life companion we choose? That’s the 
first. The second; and last: make divorce free upon 
application of one person—unhappiness is enough 
reason—anything less is barbarous, connotes slavery.” 

Graeme had been following with a confused mind. 
He wondered if he had registered correctly? Inces¬ 
tuous? That word was out of place—Street’s accu¬ 
racy had surely failed him. He discovered that the 
eyes of the rest were challenging the American’s vo¬ 
cabulary. 

“Before we agree, or disagree, elaborate,” sug¬ 
gested Fackenthal in the pleasant way that was his. 

Jepson had focussed his monocle on his guest. 
“First tell me why you call it incestuous. That 
sounded strange to me.” 

Grateful to his host for asking that question! 
That’s the beauty of thorough training, courage. 
One’s never afraid to ask questions, never afraid of 
disclosing untidy corners of ignorance— 

“Because it is incestuous. We’ve been giving the 
word its acquired meaning, of relationship, of con- 


THE HOLY ESTATE 


247 

sanguinity, and its significance to us, and its helpful¬ 
ness has been lost. In the tribes, an attraction was 
observed between people who did not grow up in the 
same group of tents, or under the same roof. Aver¬ 
sion, or indifference between those who did. Meaning 
was read into all these simple instincts and a taboo 
was put finally on marriages of those brought up to¬ 
gether. But you know all this, professor! We’ve 
inherited the notion of immorality; we don’t heed the 
warning those old fellows were trying to give us, of 
the dangers of familiarity.” 

“I see what you mean,” said Jepson. 

“Our hidden folkways acknowledge it!” cried 
Street. “Here, suppose we marry a girl who has all 
the attraction of strangeness. We fall in love with 
her little foreign way, not of our tribe. When we 
get her home, we begin to make her over into the 
ways of our tribe. Even the sense of her strangeness 
begins to wear off. We see too much of her, she of 
us. We make our marriage run the risk of non¬ 
attraction. No other partnership could stand the 
strain we put on that relationship, the one we are 
pledged to for life. The sweetheart may have be¬ 
come the model wife and mother, and we marvel that 
we give her respect instead of love, and that our fancy 
wanders afield where attraction is, and mystery. I 
for one will not subscribe to the belief in the incurable 
animalism of man, in his inherent infidelity. It’s our 
stupid, man-made customs!” 

A stimulating fellow, the American. He puts 
things differently. Gives bright new words to one’s 
own dull rebellions! 


248 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


“We put such an asinine strain on this partnership! 
We chain ourselves together, swear ourselves away 
together, oh, we do get a wonderful thrill, though, 
swearing ourselves away! It’s like going into a mon¬ 
astery, or a convent, or war, not knowing what you 
are going to get into, declaring you will live and die, 
and more than that, want to stay there! 

“Then we make ourselves over at once into Siamese 
twins. Always together, except during business hours. 
We make a parade of our constant togetherness. 
Have to be asked out together, as Siamese twins. 
Not quite right after that swearing-away ceremony 
ever to be seen with those of the other sex, that is 
enjoying one’s self. A taboo at once on that, that 
innocent pleasure stopped, made more desirable be¬ 
cause of the taboo! One has to pretend that one 
doesn’t want ever again to see and enjoy those of the 
other sex, pretending, always pretending! Pretend¬ 
ing ardent love, when one is in love with the foreign¬ 
way woman around the corner, though quite well 
satisfied with one’s wife as the mother of one’s chil¬ 
dren, or as a housekeeper! 

“Pretending to like drafts, because the other one 
likes all the windows open, and if one doesn’t pretend, 
the neighbours will whisper that dreadful word: ‘hen¬ 
pecked!’ ” 

Merciless, Street is. His flashlight exposing all 
the dark corners! 

“Pretending, biggest pretence of all, to be happy, 
because custom has made it the deadly sin to tell the 
truth about it until it is time to break off, and then one 


THE HOLY ESTATE 


249 


has to perjure one’s self, and has to acknowledge the 
perjury, drag in witnesses to prove it, drag in all the 
pitiful secrets to prove it. And maybe the other 
Siamese twin has a reason for wishing to contest the 
wish for freedom? Law is on his side, even in our 
country you call free, or lax. Dreadful, says public 
opinion, to give a divorce to two, when only one wants 
it! Instead of—” 

Street paused so long that it seemed as though he 
had lost his thread. Jepson reminded him: “In¬ 
stead of—what?” 

“Make love, the ending of it, end of the contract,” 
mused Street, whom another thought was obviously 
claiming. 

Hornbrook, by this time was almost obscured. 
His voice sounded sleepy and covered. “Street 
thinks marriage is for the individual; I think it is for 
the race.” 

Street was still musing; reading visions, memories, 
into the dark wallcovering of the opposite wall. 

Jepson answered. “The finest individuals make 
the finest race, Hornbrook.” 

“Check, Hornie!” chuckled Fackenthal. 

“I would like,” stated the unseen Hornbrook, “to 
take issue with Mr. Street’s interpretation of the word 
‘love.’ ” They could see his hands making a church 
steeple of his two forefingers, then the body of the 
church. “I would call it romance, excitement. Not 
the emotion we build homes on.” 

“No, I agree with you, we don’t,” retorted Street, 
returning. 


2 5 ° 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


“Whereas, if you take the child as the objective,” 
Hornbrook was pulling himself up from his anaesthe¬ 
tizing chair, “you give progress a big shove.” 

“Heavens, if they get started on eugenics, we’ll 
never have a chance!” cried Jepson, in mock alarm. 

“Take your chance,” clipped Street. “What do 
you think of divorce laws ‘as is’?” 

“Oh, I believe in divorce,” returned Jepson, stiffly, 
playing with the string of his monocle. “I think our 
present laws antiquated, abominable. But I’m afraid 
I’m too old fashioned to like the trial marriage, Mr. 
Street.” 

“Old fashioned! it’s as old as history! The 
Romans practised it.” 

“Perhaps,” put in Fackenthal, “you know our laws, 
Mr. Street? One cause, only, and that has to be 
proved. England keeps a public defender to disprove 
it! And only one of the pair can urge it, otherwise 
the claim is denied.” 

“Needs some stout hearts to blaze a trail,” shrugged 
Street. “What do you think, Mr. Graeme?” 

He knew his turn was coming! Like a boy, Street, 
making a game of conversation. 

He began slowly. “My question is this: how long 
is it right to follow the rules of the game; when is 
it right to disregard them, and to blaze the trail?” 

“It’s a fine phrase, ‘playing the game’.” The 
American’s lips were curling to accommodate his cigar¬ 
ette. “Though it’s really suttee. We’ve a passion 
for good opinion, we want to seem to stay within tribal 
custom. The Hindoo widows couldn’t be diverted, 
even if death were the punishment—fear of public 


THE HOLY ESTATE 


251 

opinion! Respect of the Mores. Inspired idea, that 
word, connotes a blind, dogged psychology. ‘What¬ 
ever swings off the hinges of custom,’ Huxley said, ‘is 
off the hinges of reason.’ ” 

Fackenthal said he had to be going. Graeme dis¬ 
covered suddenly that the hour was late. Street and 
Hornbrook were taking up their argument where they 
had dropped it. They were ready to make a night 
of it. 

Graeme manoeuvred for a word with Street. He 
was going to follow an absurd impulse, and invite the 
American to dinner. 

“Jepson put me up at his club. Address me 
there,” said Street. 

Wade followed Fackenthal into the hall, wishing he 
had a home to which he could invite Street. Picture 
Street at Bird Place, or talking to Alma? 

He wished Isabel could meet him. He was al¬ 
ways wishing she could meet his friends. “Taboos on 
innocent freedoms!” And what was that other thing 
he had quoted? Oh yes. “Whatever is off the 
hinges of custom is off the hinges of reason.” 

He could hear Street saying: “If I were a nation- 
builder, I’d prefer parents to be happy examples 
rather than disheartening precepts or warnings, pro¬ 
fessor !” 

“Jepson’s got to make a night of it!” smiled Fack¬ 
enthal, as the front door was opened for them. 
“Let me take you to your station, Wade,” he urged. 

The night was raw, and his coat was thin. His 
hesitation lasted an instant. “Thank you,” he said, 
and followed Fackenthal into the casket depths of the 
limousine. 


CHAPTER XXV 


GUESSES 

■ . . .\jo iPM3| 

A N interesting evening,” commented Fackenthal, 
after they had settled where Graeme had best 
be dropped. 

“Rather—candid,” he returned, thinking of some 
of the things that had been said in Jepson’s library. 
“Um, I question the candour!” pursed Fackenthal. 
Graeme wondered why he questioned the candour, 
but he did not ask; his companion would complete his 
sentence, if he wanted to. 

“I admire Jepson,” Fackenthal offered, after a 
pause. “He is big enough for candour, the kind that 
helps. But it is just as I said there. He might be 
willing as far as his part goes, but his story involves 
others. We find it mighty hard to let our own revolts 
help others. It is just as I said: the people who talk, 
talk without experience; those who have the experi¬ 
ence, can’t.” 

“He is married, isn’t he?” Wade asked. He 
wanted to know about men, fine men, like Jepson, or 
Street. Those two, he felt sure, must have reached 
an honest solution. 

“Lady Strathairn. You come across her name in 
the papers, always at the head of a board, or some¬ 
thing. Her chief interest is a children’s hospital; 
that hospital is the lengthened shadow of Lady Mil- 


GUESSES 


253 

dred Strathairn. She and Jepson don’t get along; 
gossips say it’s religion, a difference of opinion. 
Keeps ’em apart, and keeps ’em together. For she 
doesn’t believe in divorce. She has grounds, but she 
won’t acknowledge them. In the north of England, 
there’s another home, a woman, and three children, 
who look like Jepson. Image of Jepson. I’ve seen 
their pictures, he’s shown them to me, talked a little 
to me about them. I know some friends of his, closer 
than I am, who have visited there. They speak of 
it as a beautiful home. She is clever; Irish, not 
beautiful, but lovely, adores Jepson. Of course, he 
worships her, for her courage, her sweetness. For 
her truth. For she isn’t his wife; her neighbours know 
she isn’t his wife. That’s the way he’s solved it!” 

“If you call it solving it!” Graeme knew that his 
voice was betraying him, that his voice was rotten. 
Making his pulse race, thinking of that town in the 
north of England where the Irish woman lived with 
the children who looked like Jepson. 

“What do you think of it, as a solution?” he asked 
when Fackenthal did not go on. 

“I don’t think. Thinking means judging. I’m 
just recording, Wade. Gossipping, I’d call it, if other 
fellows were doing the talking! Those three chil¬ 
dren will do the judging. Maybe things will have 
straightened out before they are grown; when changes 
begin to happen, they go very fast—all the momen¬ 
tum, the passion, the hidden thought of the centuries 
pushing them. It may not hurt them. But it hurts 
Jepson. If he lied about it, hid her, denied her—but 
he refuses to do that. It is always cropping out 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


2 54 

against him. Such stories do, if one is successful or 
conspicuous.” 

Flagrantly obvious why Fackenthal was telling him 
Jepson’s story! Knew something, suspected some¬ 
thing. Wanted to nudge him, over another’s 
shoulders, warn him that such stories come up, are 
used as a club to knock you under if once you get your 
head above water. Good, old friendly Fackenthal! 

“He’d marry her this minute, if he could. His 
wife must know of those children—but she will die 
Jepson’s wife! Maybe she is honestly living up to a 
creed, but it looks sour to an outsider. Won’t let 
any one else have what she doesn’t want. She hadn’t 
lived with him for years before this happened. 
Salves her conscience, I suppose, by being an angel to 
all other children.” 

“Wouldn’t it be better, braver,” asked Wade, with 
deliberation, “if that family lived, say in London, 
took his name, forced the hand, if not of Lady 
Strathairn, of law? Wouldn’t Jepson then be help¬ 
ing others—blazing a trail, as Street called it? No¬ 
body hiding?” 

“They’re not hiding. He’s too well known, in 
England, in Europe, to hide a family he spends half 
of his time with! There’s a lot of mud on that kind 
of a trail—and how much do we really know about 
any man or woman’s life, anyway? We make guesses 
only about the little we see or know—” 

Graeme peered out of the mist-obscured window. 
They were travelling slowly through the blanketing 
fog. He could not see where they were. 

“Jepson has often talked to me about Street, made 



GUESSES 


255 


guesses about him.” Graeme knew that there was a 
grin on Fackenthal’s face. “He made, it was said, a 
ghastly failure of his first marriage. He was a pretty 
conspicuous figure over there then, editor of a weekly 
liberal paper, before weekly liberal papers were as 
common as they are now. Everybody knew Street; 
iconclastic books. He took the failure terribly to 
heart. It was a failure to him. It was a part of the 
creed he’d been crying, that a failure there is as much 
of a disgrace to a person as bankruptcy, that it was the 
failure which caused the divorce that was the disgrace, 
not the divorce itself. He declined to be what he 
would call a Hindoo widow, declined suttee. He 
said his life was not finished. Jepson read me one of 
his letters, telling him that he was marrying again, 
that marriage was for the individual, that the individ¬ 
ual was not to be a sacrifice to an institution. The 
second try was equally ghastly. Both women must 
have been fearful rotters— Any other man would 
have stopped there, a man as well known as Street. 
He sent clippings to Jepson when he tried it again—his 
w r orld was laughing at him. ‘Triumph of hope over 
experience,’ a weekly said. That third marriage, 
Jepson says, is the rare sort. He has a wonderful 
wife, quite exceptional children. They are trying out 
a different sort of plan; she is a business woman, 
keeps on with it. That’s why she couldn’t come with 
him. She’s coming later. I want to meet the third 
Mrs. Street!” 

“Trial marriages,” observed Graeme, a little disap¬ 
pointed in Street. One mistake he could understand, 
calf love, ignorance, excitement, and all that, but two, 



THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


256 

with experience and suffering behind one to make one’s 
steps wary? 

“The states seem to be headed that way, but Street’s 
personal creed interprets that as transitional. He 
thinks the time’s coming when people will feel the 
same shame in failing in marriage as they do at fail¬ 
ing in a profession, any other profession, I remember 
he wrote to Jepson. The phrase stuck in my memory. 
I liked the suggestions it raised, making a profession, 
an art of marriage, of daily life, Wade.” 

Graeme liked it, too. He liked the suggestions it 
raised, of rose-bowered rooms, of gracious living, 
books read together, a friendship saved by art from 
the commonplace. 

“Professor Hornbrook?” inquired Graeme when it 
dawned on him that a charged silence was lengthen¬ 
ing. 

“Oh, Hornie!” Graeme could feel Fackenthal’s 
shoulders shaking. “A sly dog, Hornie! I used to 
go to school with him, we were in college together— 
he always liked the ladies! Has to like them now 
with circumspection. His lady keeps a sharp eye on 
the professor! In love with love, we used to say be¬ 
hind his back. He takes now a scientific interest in 
love and marriage; has become a professed eugenist 
—gossipy old woman I am tonight, Wade!” 

“They’re probably gossipping about us.” Stupid, 
common remark, he accused himself. 

“They’re welcome to their guesses. Nobody really 
knows much. I’ve never talked about that side of my 
life. There has never been but one woman, really, 
the solemn way, in my life. When I couldn’t get her, 


GUESSES 


257 

I didn’t marry, didn’t want to marry any one else. 
Sometimes, I think I made a mistake, not marrying. 
It’s lonely—when your imagination gets to working. 
Children playing by the hearth, or by a Christmas 
tree, they start your imagination working! Or chil¬ 
dren running down a garden walk to meet—some¬ 
body else! I wonder if ever a lonely man gets too 
old to have that hurt him, seeing children running to 
jump into their father’s arms? But if every time you 
think you’ll do it, another woman’s face slips in, if 
everytime you think you can put some one behind that 
coffee urn, you see her face, why you can’t do it, you 
know you are wrong to any other woman if you 
do it, and by and by you are too old.” 

“You’re not too old,” began Wade, warmly. 

“Yes, I’m too old to begin, Wade. And when I 
visit the Hornbrooks, or the Knights, people who live 
like that, watching each other out of the corner of 
their eyes, I’m glad I never made such a ghastly mis¬ 
take. Like the poet who said: ‘I would live the 
same life over if I had to live again, and the chances 
are I go where most men go!’ ” 

If one’s guesses can be true, if he knew anything 
about other men, he thought the man whose shoulders 
he was brushing would go much farther than the rest. 
Fine, knightly Fackenthal! 

He had a strong impulse to tell about Isabel. If 
he had time, he would tell him about her. But they 
were reaching the tube station—he could see the 
lights— 

“Yours was candour, as far as it went,” he said hold¬ 
ing out his hand affectionately to his friend. 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


258 

“That’s what it all was, candour as far as it went!” 
returned the older man. “That’s what I said. We 
can’t expect the truth on this subject. Can’t be done. 
Good-night, Wade.” 

The car stopped. Holden, the chauffeur, was crawl¬ 
ing down to open the door for him. 

He was glad the machine stopped when it did. It 
was just an impulse, wanting to talk about Isabel to 
Fackenthal. He might be sorry later, he would 
surely be sorry later, for he didn’t know how much 
he cared to tell him; and half candour, as Fackenthal 
said, leads nowhere. Better nothing, than half- 
truths. 

Fackenthal, though, had surmised something. 
Had tried to warn him: “The story always crops 
up.” 

And his own story, Fackenthal’s? Didn’t he tell 
him that to help him, to show him that a man can do 
without the things he wants the most, and yet live a 
straight life, a useful life, and a rich one? 

He had forgotten to speak to Mr. Fackenthal of 
the dinner for Street. Better, though, to have Street 
fix the time, first, and then he’d tell Fackenthal. 

Social machinery very rusty, Wade. Have to get 
oiled up, old man! For you’re going on. Some¬ 
thing tells you that you are going on! 


CHAPTER XXVI 


FLIGHT 

A N office boy told him, with a leer, that a lady 
wanted to speak to Mr. Graeme on the tele¬ 
phone. 

On the way to the outer office, Wade tried to quiet 
his impulse by telling himself that it w T as Alma. Yet 
fancy Alma paying to speak to him a few hours sooner 
than dinner time! Unless little Alma might be ill? 
But something told him that it was Isabel. Some¬ 
thing had happened. 

He was prepared for her voice, small and fright¬ 
ened. 

“Yes, Graeme speaking. Can’t you hear me?” 
There were clerks about. No wonder she did not 
recognize his sharp, businesslike tone! 

“It’s I, Isabel. Wade, can I see you?” 

“Is anything wrong?” Idiot to ask her that. 
Would she bring him to the telephone, asking him to 
leave the office if everything were all right? 

“I don’t know whether it’s wrong, or right. But— 
it’s over. I’ve left him, Wade. I’m not going back 
there, ever.” 

“Does he know?” He was picking his words so 
that the clerks might not suspect anything unusual. 
“Not yet. He went away for the week-end. I 

found out—the cleaners let it out, where he was pre- 

259 


26 o 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


tending to send his clothes. I’ve been praying for a 
chance—I can’t stand it any longer, Wade. I didn’t 
know whether to write you after, or tell you this way 
—but I’ve got to borrow money. Hateful, having to. 
But I’ve not enough to get me anywhere.” 

“Where will I meet you?” 

“The station? I don’t want to meet you at any 
of the old places.” 

“Which station? I’ve not enough for—” she 
would know he meant Paris. That he hadn’t enough 
to take them both there, and leave anything to get 
along on. “Some nearer place.” 

His poverty was terribly galling that minute. Not 
to be able to take her altogether out of that fellow’s 
reach! “Which station?” he repeated, as she had 
not seemed to hear him. 

“Charing Cross?” she suggested, in a dubious, little 
voice. “One can reach almost any place from there. 
We can make up our minds, there.” 

“Will you be planning? I’ll be there as quick as 
I can. I have to clear this desk first, make some ar¬ 
rangements. Let’s decide where we will meet. 
Right of the entrance, no, let’s say, more definitely, at 
the south-east corner.” 

It was Saturday morning. There would be yet 
time to find a place for her; Sunday they could talk 
things out, roam a bit, and plan. He would have to 
despatch a letter to Alma saying he was going out of 
town; on an errand for the firm! 

He subtracted carefully from his savings. Terri¬ 
bly meagre they were, standing for months of lean 


FLIGHT 


261 


lunches, for renounced tobacco, for night after night 
of sleeplessness. It wasn’t possible to think of Paris. 
He wished now that he hadn’t given that dinner to 
Street. It had made a big hole in two pounds, giv¬ 
ing that dinner, for of course, he had to include Jep- 
son and Mr. Fackenthal. 

He found Isabel huddling in her corner at Charing 
Cross, sitting in the shadow of a newstand. Her 
looks shocked him. She had gone off frightfully. 
She was thinner, paler. It was sea-air she needed, 
Brighton. 

“Have you hit on a place?” he asked. 

“What do you think of Brighton?” inquired Isabel. 
“It’s so big—” 

“I’ll get the tickets. Wait for me here,” he coun¬ 
selled. 

Sometime, if they ever had time to talk of things 
which did not demand instant settling, he wanted to 
talk with her of the trick she had of taking his 
thought on the wing. Was it only a coincidence, 
same type of mind, or something more than that? If 
they were only together enough, it would be an inter¬ 
esting thing to watch, and perhaps to develop. 

The length of time they keep one waiting in line for 
tickets! Ticket men are never in a hurry. They get 
callous to seeing the world in a hurry. His line 
hadn’t budged over an inch since he came, and Isabel 
waiting nervously over yonder! He couldn’t see her. 
She had successfully obscured herself, or was in eclipse 
behind some other woman’s feathers. He was thank¬ 
ful that Isabel did not wear feathers. 


262 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


Line starting at last! That first fellow must have 
been buying tickets for the north or south pole ! And 
now stopping again! 

He fell to thinking what it would be like, being 
with Isabel during long, unhurried hours. Seeing her 
the sweet, intimate daily way; watching her drape 
roses over things; sitting across the table from her, or 
before the fireside, winter evenings, talking of the 
books they had read. They would never get done 
talking of the books they were reading; going out to¬ 
gether, to a concert now and then, think of going to a 
concert with Isabel! or to a good play; walking back 
through the parks; in the spring when the blossoms 
were coming out; in the autumn when the leaves were 
falling. Hurrying home to her, always hurrying home 
to her! Leaving her in the morning to earn for her 
more books, more roses, and with the right to return, 
knowing she’d be waiting— Blood had had that 
chance, or could have had it. Other men have it; for 
there must be other fine and gentle women in the world 
like Isabel. But not for Wade Graeme.j 

H is darling was looking jaded. A few days at 
Brighton would freshen her, give her courage. And 
then—next. Paris? If he decided to tell Fackenthal. 

He bought second class tickets to Brighton. She 
was reading a periodical, pretending to read it, when 
he rejoined her. He insisted upon knowing if she 
had had any lunch? A cup of tea only? She called 
that lunch? She didn’t know how to take care of her¬ 
self! Did she like pears? Chocolate w r as the best 
thing to take when one’s travelling; chocolate and 



FLIGHT 263 

nuts. And he bought a weekly for her, and one for 
himself. 

In the coach, he established her by an open window, 
with the pears and chocolate on her lap, resting on her 
magazine, with the walnuts he cracked for her. He 
had suggested, as they followed her bags, that it would 
be better not to seem to be travelling together. And 
Isabel had thought of that, too. 

He took a seat opposite her, and buried himself in 
his paper when other passengers began to get in. 
Once in a while he would steal a glance at her face as 
she was staring out at the passing landscape. The 
look in her eyes hurt him. That hard look was bad 
enough in other women, but for Isabel! He remem¬ 
bered her tone at Kew: “Not cruel, yet.” Did that 
grim expression mean that he had begun to be cruel to 
her ? 

It was maddening, not being able to talk to her. 
They had so much to say, dozens of questions to ask 
her, and caution keeping them to their stranger roles. 
He noticed that she could not keep her attention on 
her paper. What was passing behind that pale mask 
of hers? Isabel must not have a mouth like that, a 
hard line, like the mouths of the women of the ’busses, 
the angry, bitter kind. 

He was going to Brighton with Isabel! Pretend 
that it’s an adventure, a happy outing, get the joy out 
of it, Wade Graeme! • 

He had mapped out their life quite clearly. He 
would get her started in Paris, see her once in a while, 
once a year, maybe, if he could write enough things 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


264 

for the papers, learn to reel them off, quickly enough. 
He was too fussy. 

Perfect of their kind, he wanted them. To write 
snappy, concentrated English, that sounds hurried, 
takes time. To get all the meaning in, every unne¬ 
cessary word out, that takes time. Pascal knew it! 
He hadn't time to write a short letter! 

He would have to learn to do it more quickly, learn 
not to be meticulous. For he had to earn money for 
Isabel now. No more dinners for Jepson and his 
friends—if he were to get her started, if he were to 
see her once in a while. Carrying his work to her, 
talking together of their work. 

For that was where they had to keep this wonder¬ 
ful relationship of theirs. Steered away from Kew, 
from disturbing moments like Kew. Everything he’d 
written since was rotten poor because the taste of her 
kisses was still with him, because of the yearning to 
hold her in his arms again. He was conscious this 
minute of every move of her. Every time she drew 
one of those piteous, tense breaths, it went across his 
heart.! 

It didn’t abate his love a bit that her beauty was ob¬ 
scured. There were dark lines under her eyes; the 
eyes were lustreless, her lids were red and swollen. 
She had the look of one with influenzo. But she 
had assured him that she was not ill. 

Not her beauty that he loved. He loved her be¬ 
cause of her truth, the beauty of her spirit. She was 
like his mother in that. Like her, too, in her sweet¬ 
ness, her gentle gaiety, her fragrance. Not beauty? 
All of a piece, her beauty, spirit, face, Isabel! 


FLIGHT 265 

One can’t define that sort of attraction. Some 
women have it, others haven’t it, and that’s all one 
can say. Call it charm, but one can’t capture it with 
words. It’s like beauty. Give one woman regular 
features, a good skin, and she passes unnoticed in a 
crowd. Give the same to another woman, and there’s 
a radiance that startles every one. That’s beauty, 
beauty like Isabel’s. 

She could never do a little petty thing which would 
make one ashamed or sorry. One must always be 
striving to be worthy of her. It was those highbred 
reserves of hers he loved; and her aspirations; he 
loved her sense of beauty; her sympathy; he would 
love her sad, or happy; young, or aging; he would love 
her for ever, when dead. 

Dead! His words had carried him into the shad¬ 
ows! Isabel dead! He gave her such a sharp 
questioning look that she turned to it, permitting a 
ghost of a reassuring smile to answer him. “Why 
she was all right! Brighton was all she needed.” 

His neighbours began to bestir themselves. They 
must be nearing Brighton? He hadn’t noticed them 
before! Two or three week-end men, family men 
with bundles from London, a woman with a child and 
a bandbox. 

He had no boxes nor bags. Isabel had several 
heavy bags. She’d prepared for a long stay, had his 
Isabel. 

Then it was Brighton, with the guards bustling 
them out, and the porters calling, and in the distance 
the hotel runners advertising their hotels. 

As though she were a stranger, he addressed Isa- 


266 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


bel. Couldn’t he help her with her bags? He had 
none. She said he was very kind. 

He kept behind her. But they might have been in 
Egypt. No one was noticing them. There was no 
one they knew. Hordes of people were waiting for 
friends from London; there was nobody who could 
expect them. It would be queer if Blood had come to 
Brighton for the week-end. It was, of course, pos¬ 
sible. He must caution Isabel. 

“Shall we go to a hotel?” he asked her. “Or to 
some quiet place ?” 

“Oh, a quiet place, surely!” she answered. 

“I’ll hunt up an information bureau. If you will 
wait here a minute.” 

He came back with a list of addresses in his hand. 
“We can surely find something from these. Some are 
close by. Do you feel like walking?” , 

After that long ride, Isabel wanted to walk. But 
she did not want to be near the station where people 
were passing all the time. 

There was no need, he told her, of her walking up 
all the steps to look at rooms. He would look at them, 
and if they were endurable, he’d come after her. He 
had left her bags at the station, with a porter. He 
would send back for them when they’d found quarters. 

He added that he had asked for addresses on side 
streets. His only reason for asking for houses near 
the station was to save time when he came up Satur¬ 
days. 

“How thoughtless of me,” she exclaimed, suddenly 
radiant. “Why this neighbourhood is quiet. Have 
you any numbers on this square?” 


FLIGHT 


267 

“Two on the next,” he answered, looking at his list. 

At the corner, he hastened ahead and before join¬ 
ing her had interviewed two landladies. He thought 
he’d found something she’d like. On the second 
floor. “You’re going to be my sister, remember,” he 
cautioned, hoping to see her smile again.'! 

“I don’t look the part!” And she told him soberly 
that she was going to use her mother’s name, Sorbier. 

A thin, capable driver of a woman met them in the 
hall, where she was waiting. She had a slit of a 
mouth, and keen, appraising eyes. It looked as 
though it had been torn, Graeme decided, looking at 
her again. It was like a rent, her mouth. 

“I’ll show you your room, the one your brother 
picked out. His is downstairs.” 

He must remember Sorbier, Isabel Sorbier. He 
must find a new name for himself, or wasn’t that nec¬ 
essary? He decided that it wasn’t necessary. No¬ 
body would be searching for him. He didn’t want 
any more lies than were necessary. They w^ere mis¬ 
chievous things. They lead one into traps— He 
hated them more than the deadlier sins. 

Isabel came back, saying that her room was all right. 
Was his as comfortable? 

Anything would do for him! He’d be down so sel¬ 
dom. 

“How long will the lady be here?” demanded the 
landlady, and he discovered the suspicion in her world- 
hardened eyes. 

Isabel waited for him to answer. “Oh, indefi¬ 
nitely,” he returned. 

On their way to the street, he asked Isabel if the 


268 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


woman had told her that she did not serve meals, only 
a continental breakfast, if she would want that? 

Was she too tired now to go in search of dinner, 
for that was where he was carrying her. Or would 
she like to have him send her something? He 
thought her step was dragging. 

She wanted to go in search of dinner! She wanted 
to see Brighton! 

“Shall we walk about a bit, first, then?” And as 
she fell into step beside him, he referred to the land¬ 
lady. “Didn’t she glare at us! She doesn’t believe 
in us. She thinks we are—” 

“What we are, runaways,” she amended, calmly. 

In the cafe, she brightened, became more like the 
Isabel he knew. He could see her trying to bring 
gaiety to the meal. But every arrival routed her. 
She would not speak of it, but he knew that she was 
expecting to see Blood stalk into the room with some 
flashy woman at his side. Her eyes dilated each time 
a man of his type strode in. It was surprising how 
many men of his type were in Brighton! 

“I won’t take you to the beach afterwards,” admon¬ 
ished Graeme, “if you don’t eat that chop.” 

So pretty she was again with the flush of joy re¬ 
juvenating her! 

“Going down to the beach? How nice! How 
good you are to me!” 

“Will you pay me, you know how, Isabel?” To 
make her flush again; to make her look like his own 
Isabel. 

Pay him! Poverty-stricken refugee, the only way 
she could! 

O 7 


FLIGHT 


269 

The trams were crowded, the beach was crowded. 
Not a corner of Brighton that warm summer evening 
which did not harbour a cooing couple, or chattering 
group. After a while, Isabel’s feet did certainly drag! 

“I must get you home soon. I’m a selfish brute,” 
said Graeme. But first he had to cheer her, he had to 
get that frightened, despairing look from her eyes. 
He spied a sheltered place quite a distance up the 
beach. 

“Can you make it?” 

Yes she could make it. 

When they reached the other side of the spit of 
rock, he pulled her down on the sand beside him. Reg¬ 
istering a vow to himself as he pulled her down to 
him. 

It was not to be like Kew. It was not to be wild 
and disquieting like that. But tender, like old mar¬ 
ried lovers, if there be such a paradox. To bring the 
flush back to her cheeks, the youth back to her eyes. 

He held out his arms to her. 

“Now, pay me!” 

She put her arms around his neck, laying her 
cheek against his. 

“Home, isn’t it, Wade?” 


CHAPTER XXVII 


ON THE LATCH 

D URING the week he had written to Isabel, 
telling her he would go to Brighton, and 
which train he would take. After he had 
despatched the note, he asked himself why he had 
mentioned the time he would arrive. He did not ex¬ 
pect her to meet him—that kind of simple sweetness 
was not for them. Was it a servile habit he’d ac¬ 
quired of acknowledging his programs? beginning the 
same cringing way with Isabel—he pulled himself up 
abruptly. It was a vulgar, self-directed gibe, that. 
And not true. One by law his wife, and the other the 
woman he could only distantly adore. 

But it made it seem the other relation, going down 
to Brighton for the week-end, carrying her the week¬ 
lies, and a box of chocolates! Exciting to be run¬ 
ning away; as though in happier days, when week-ends 
were not novelty. 

On the train, his eyes closed, he made himself ac¬ 
knowledge why it was exciting. Not because he could 
pretend he was the Wade Graeme of Surrey, on his 
way to visit the Knights over Sunday, but because it 
was Isabel who was expecting him; just as though he 
were going home, to Her. Taking her the weeklies 
and a box of sweets. Hearing the story of the week’s 
simple happenings from her lips, and having her eyes, 
oh, and her lips, thank him! 


ON THE LATCH 


271 


His pulses were racing as at Kew. He was seeing 
Kew, as he sat in the stuffy coach, crowded with vul¬ 
gar folk, he was seeing the rotting post sticking up 
from the stagnant water, watching the sunlight sift¬ 
ing down on her face, on the lips which in a few min¬ 
utes were to yield to his, the way it isn’t to be. But 
not wrong to pretend that it’s true. Not wrong to 
dream that he is going home to her, and that it’s all 
right to be going home, gladly, to her! 

He had promised himself to take care of her, and 
he was going to keep that promise because there was 
something stronger than himself, he didn’t know what 
it was yet, Mores, instinct, making him want to. But 
that promise could not keep him from calling her to 
him in that dusty, crowded coach, making her speak 
to him, telling him what Isabel alone could tell him. 
Seeing her, in her room of roses; holding her in his 
arms, as at Kew. 

His comrades were probably thinking him a blase 
Londoner, on his way to spend Sunday with his com¬ 
monplace family! A little bored with the prospect, 
preferring a dinner at Claridge’s and a vaudeville 
after. With his heart pounding against his ribs, be¬ 
cause Isabel was waiting for him. 

She was with him during the journey, telling him 
about her books, about Annersley, until the train pulled 
into the Brighton depot. He had forgotten his note 
he had sent to her, he wasn’t thinking of seeing her 
at the station, the real Isabel, and was passing with 
the rest of the sheep through the gate when his glance 
fell on her, on Isabel in a white cotton frock and the 
grey hat laden with purple lilacs. She was scanning 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


272 

the faces as they passed; in a minute she would dis¬ 
cover him— 

His surprise made her flush crimson. Suddenly she 
realized what an untoward thing she had done, com¬ 
ing to meet him openly, joyously, as though quite an 
honest sweetheart, quite an honest wife! 

It was the second time he had seen shame in her 
eyes. It was the look he had sworn he would never 
bring there. 

“Angelic of you to meet me!” he said at once, and 
then as the flush did not fade, he added: “I was won¬ 
dering if you would.” 

“Oh, no, you didn’t,” choked Isabel, her face still 
flaming. 

No use lying to Isabel. Even if he wanted to. 
For she always knew. There were to be no evasions, 
no subterfuges. Those are the habits of people who 
belong to one another, unloving, shackled people. 
Silences and reserves they would have; she rarely 
spoke of her life—he did not talk of Alma. 

In silence, both deeply thinking, they walked on. 
Wade realized suddenly where they were. “Hold 
on, aren’t we on the wrong street? Going in the 
wrong direction? Or are we going to the beach 
first?” 

“That's the reason I came. I had to pilot you.” 
As she faced him, he knew what she had looked like 
as a child, wistful appealing eyes, flushed cheeks, just 
like a shy child confessing some fault. “I—I moved, 
Wade, this week. You don’t mind, do you?” 

Mind, why should he mind? If it were more de- 


ON THE LATCH 


273 


cent. He didn’t want her to be squeezing pennies! 
For he had had a fear that she would be economiz¬ 
ing, doing without decent meals in order not to be a 
burden. 

“It wasn’t that. Though this happens to be 
cheaper. Three shillings a week cheaper. But it is 
a darling place—” 

“Let me do the worrying over the money for 
awhile, Isabel!” 

“I said it wasn’t that.” It was truth which was 
coming out to him from the eyes which had threatened 
swift tears when his stupid surprise had betrayed him. 
Like the sun coming out through rain clouds, her 
smile. “It was because of that frightful woman, the 
other landlady, so—scornful!” 

“Rude to you! Not decent to you!” cried Wade, 
angered at once. 

“Sceptical!” confessed Isabel, flushing again. 

“Oh, sceptical!” He was beginning to understand. 
She didn’t believe that brother story. He remem¬ 
bered the look that had piloted him to the room on 
the lower floor. 

“We shouldn’t have told her that,” said Isabel. 
She was coming to a halt in front of a vine-covered 
cottage, with a pocket handkerchief of a lawn in front. 

“That woman said the brother and sister story is 
outworn in Brighton—” 

How was he going to send that shamed look from 
his beloved’s eyes? He interrupted her. 

“You found a place nearer the station. That was 
thoughtful of you. Fully five minutes nearer—*■” 


274 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


“I hope you like it.” Such a shy, uncertain Isabel. 
“The rooms are not so big. But the garden in the 
rear is a delight—” 

“I like it already,” he declared. “Do you go out 
for your meals?” 

“She serves breakfasts, and she is accustomed to 
having meals sent in. She has given me a little stove 
to fuss over, as she calls it, when the days are bad. 
But we haven’t had a bad day yet. But it’s nice to 
be able to brew one’s own tea, or make a cup of choco¬ 
late. I can do it for you, Wade, if we feel like stay¬ 
ing in when you’re here.” 

Life suddenly delirious because Isabel was talking 
to him about homely things like brewing tea, or mak¬ 
ing chocolate! Trust Isabel to find a cosy nest. She 
had the home instinct. 

As she passed up the steps ahead of him she was 
searching through her purse for the key. 

“I’ll show you your room, Wade.” 

She went on upstairs, stopping at the first door 
from the landing. 

Through an open window of the room the scent of 
honeysuckle was blowing, honeysuckle which he could 
see framing the window, and a heavier-scented fra¬ 
grance from the garden, out of eye-reach. There 
were vases, flower-filled, standing about. Flowers on 
the dresser, and on the table. Books, too, Isabel’s 
books, of course. Gave it the homelike touch. 

He crossed to the window, and leaned out. Jolly 
garden, down there, a jolly old fashioned garden! 
Honeysuckle and sweet-williams and roses. Bushels 


ON THE LATCH 


275 

of roses. The honeysuckle had been growing there 
for a man’s lifetime; like ropes, its stems. 

“It was awfully clever of you, finding such a place!” 
He turned towards her. She was standing in the cen¬ 
tre of the room, her eyes the colour of the lilacs on her 
hat, her cheeks softly glowing. Brighton had already 
brightened her. His French rose, trying to grow in 
a drab London street! 

His arms went out to her. 

“Not once? Not once to welcome him?” 

She hesitated an instant, in that new shyness of hers. 
Shy, but trusting him. As she came softly towards 
him, as she lay in his arms for one glad minute, her 
heart beating against his, her lips answering the mes¬ 
sage of his loneliness, the pretty lilac-burdened hat 
fallen to the floor, wonder came again to him at her 
trust in him. 

What gave her this belief in the sanctity of love 
such as theirs? Must not all love, even guilty love, 
seem splendid to lovers? She came to him as to a 
haven. It bewildered and humbled him. It made 
him hate the man at Bird Place. It tempered his 
kisses, controlled his delight, quieted the pounding of 
his heart, the way she trusted him, the poor, piteous, 
childish, womanly Isabel! 

He let her move away from him. He moved to¬ 
wards the window, looking down into the tangle, 
breathing its sweetness, as though it were Isabel’s, as 
though it were Isabel. 

“How soon will you be ready?” she asked from the 
door, 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


276 

“We are eating out? Two minutes,” answered 
Graeme. 

After she had left him, he was smiling at the easy 
way the flushes came to her cheeks that day. His 
question, “Eating out?” had disquieted his nerves, 
too. For all the world like happy, sedate married 
folk; who inquire: “Are we dining out, or at home, 
tonight?” 

No one was in the corridors when he emerged a 
minute later. No one was on the stairs, or in the 
lower hall. He found Isabel waiting in the little par¬ 
lour on the ground floor. 

They went towards the beach, strolling, their eyes 
meeting occasionally, each glance an electric shock for 
Graeme, whose excitement was returning. He wished 
they had not left the vine-covered cottage where he 
might still be holding her in his arms. 

At the restaurant, he ordered fish, but he might 
have been eating autumn leaves, or ortolan’s tongues. 
She was not doing much better. When the music 
began, a violin and piano inadequately played, it came 
to him what they were going to do. They were go¬ 
ing to listen to some good music together. He con¬ 
fided his wish to her. She agreed that it would be 
wonderful. Where would they go? 

“Is there anything good running, opera, concert?” 
he demanded of their waiter, not long, he had just 
confided, from Sorrent’. 

“Konsairt, no. But the oper’ at the Metropole, is 
good, Puccini, vair’ good.” 

“Let’s try it,” and Graeme recklessly paid his bill 
without glancing at the items. A little later, as reck- 


ON THE LATCH 


277 

lessly he was paying for two seats. Rear seats, where 
Isabel and he could hold each other’s hands, like vul¬ 
gar sweethearts. 

He had never before heard Butterfly , nor had she. 
It was wonderful to be listening to it, by her side, 
hearing it with her ears, too, liking the bits she es¬ 
pecially liked; he knew when she liked it most by the 
thrill that passed from her fingers into his. He felt 
her shiver when the story shook her, when the girl 
began her long vigil by the window, watching, watch¬ 
ing— 

Lovers tonight, Wade Graeme and Isabel, Bird 
Place swept aside, their eyes confessing to a joy that 
was sheer pain. 

He bent over her to get what she was whispering. 

“I have to keep saying: It’s not real. It’s not 
true ! I couldn’t bear it if it were true !” 

“It’s too sad for you, darling.” 

Nothing was sad when he was close to her, protect¬ 
ing her—from life ! Nothing was sad when he called 
her that. 

Mingling with the outgoing throng, they forgot to 
look at the faces to see if by mischance there were 
any one they knew. Isabel knew few people; most of 
his friends had forgotten him, and if they saw him, 
what did it matter? 

He held her arm close as they were jostled into the 
street. Going home together, like two old married 
people after the show. A rummy trick life had 
played on them that it was only as the husband and 
wife of somebody else that they were going back to¬ 
gether after the show—going home. 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


278 

“The beach? Wasn’t it too fine to go in?” Fie 
meant that it was too soon to go in! 

Perhaps, if he wanted to. Though she was a little 
tired. Queer, she said, what music, good music does 
to one. She felt as though she had been working 
hard, and she had done nothing all day, except to 
pick a few flowers. Their cottage was in sight. A 
thought struck him, halting him. 

“You began to tell me something this afternoon. 
About that other landlady.” 

“We aren’t enough alike, and it’s over-used, in 
Brighton,”—he had difficulty in hearing her. 

“I hope it wasn’t very unpleasant. Nasty, was 
she?” Just the type to be nasty; he recalled the 
mouth that w r as like a slit, the cold, world-hardened 
eyes. 

“I just couldn’t stay. She told me that her house 
had to be kept respectable—oh, you know just what 
such a woman would say. But these people are 
sweet, a widow and her daughter. They were out 
when you came. They both work.” 

He was enjoying her delicious pauses, her embar¬ 
rassment. He felt like sixteen. Loving her! Want¬ 
ing to tease her, and not daring to. Not daring, be¬ 
cause any jest might bring too swift a wound. 

He seized the other arm, and turned her to him. 

“If I am not your brother any longer, then what am 
I?” 

As if he needed to ask her what he was supposed 
to be! Coming down to spend the week-end with her, 
to dine and sup and breakfast with her—to lounge the 
day through with her. His prankishness was giving 


ON THE LATCH 


279 

place to excitement again, his pulses wildly beating be¬ 
cause her smile could not be brave. 

“Let’s not go in yet. It’s too soon for this night 
to end. Are you sure you aren’t too tired for a walk 
to the beach—just there and back?’’ 

She wasn’t too tired for the walk there and back. 

His hand held her arm as they passed from the 
quiet backwater of a street into the main thorough¬ 
fare where the theatre crowd was passing. They 
knew he was not her brother, those two women, at the 
cottage. They thought he was what he'd give gladly 
the rest of his life one day, one hour to be! 

He w r as walking too fast for her; he discovered that 
he w r as pulling, almost carrying her. She was a bit 
out-breathed? They would pull up for a bit until she 
got her breath back— “It’s a jolly little place in 
there, Isabel, nice, jolly, little shop. Wouldn’t an ice, 
or a cold drink, go well? Top off the spree with an 
ice!” 

“Aren’t you being dreadfully extravagant?” she 
demanded. 

And then her eyes acknowledged that that, too, was 
a wifely question. They fell before the look in his. 
Not the way husbands, long-established husbands, look 
at one! 

Slowly they walked home together, fingers finding 
each other’s and clinging together. Nothing being 
said; nothing to be said. Silence throbbing around 
them, the night whispering to them; the waves break¬ 
ing on the beach, merging with the soft call of a muted 
violin: like a man’s strong yearning for a woman’s 
gentle sweetness. 


28 o 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


They had left the crowded thoroughfare, and had 
found other quiet, backwater streets where darkened 
cottages and silent gardens made the world, and the 
night seemed made for them. The pounding break¬ 
ers, the violin’s soft straining, the air’s subduing fra¬ 
grance, the star-pricked sky arching down and shut¬ 
ting out the rest of the hostile world made that night, 
and Brighton, a lover’s haven. 

How many other lovers were crying to themselves 
that minute that it was damnable to have made it so 
sweet, so inevitably compelling, the love of one man 
for one woman if anything called Right could keep 
them apart! If this were not right, this love of his 
for Isabel, nothing then in the world was right. 
Something outside of themselves was pushing them; 
caught in a swift-flowing current they were being 
swept where he had promised himself they would not 
be swept. But he hadn’t known it was going to be 
like this,—like drowning, resisting, trying to keep 
one’s head above the sea, and being buffeted by the 
waves, subdued, and carried out towards the ocean— 

He could see their gate. The scent of honeysuckle 
and other garden fragrances came running to meet 
them. He caught the rich smell of recently turned 
earth, wet earth, and the perfume of mignonette. 
He hadn’t thought of that flower since Surrey. Be¬ 
low the French windows it used to grow. He wished 
Isabel could see Surrey. He wished he could take her 
there. She called for a setting like that, serene and 
right, just as she repelled the thought of the Bohe¬ 
mian circle of the Korniloffs— 


ON THE LATCH 


281 


How long had they stood lingering in the garden? 
They had to go in—sometime. That’s life. One 
goes in, or goes past. Isabel’s key was entering the 
lock. 

The lower hall was dimly lit. Silence brooded 
over the house. 

He paused at the foot of the steps, looking at Isa- 
bel. 

“Upstairs, too. All the sleeping rooms are up¬ 
stairs. The rented ones. They have two other 
boarders.” 

She turned out the light at the foot of the stairs. 
He could hear her groping for the handrail. He, 
too, felt, for the railing, and touched her fingers. 
His arm went round her, to guide her up the dark 
steps. The scent of honeysuckle filled the house. 

The upper hall was dark; the rooms were dark, no 
glimmer of light coming through the quiet transoms. 
Slowly, they mounted the steps, their fingers finding 
the other’s again. They stood for a minute on the 
landing, a long-drawn-out minute. Clinging together, 
desperately clinging together, their heartbeats sound¬ 
ing like dynamos in the quiet hall. Somewhere, be¬ 
low, a quiet, passionless clock ticking time away. 

He was asking himself where the strength would 
come to end it. Something stronger than himself 
was holding him there. It was almost like relief, the 
pain, when she tore herself away from him. Some¬ 
thing had to end it. 

Noiselessly, she opened a door. 

“Your room, Wade.” Her skirts brushed past 


282 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


him. In the darkness, he felt her fingers glancing 
past him, groping for the wall; he heard another door 
open. 

He stumbled into his room. Shutting the door, he 
stood with his back against it, as though to shut out 
the tide, the current which had been tearing him from 
every mooring he had ever recognized. He thought 
he had the strength. It was Isabel who had ended 
it, Isabel who was stronger than he. He would still 
be out there, straining her to him, devouring her sweet¬ 
ness, it was she who had had the strength, she who 
had saved them. 

He heard the soft shutting of a neighbouring door. 
Isabel’s. A light flared out into the night, revealing 
the framing branches of the honeysuckle. From the 
next room. Isabel’s. 

A chink, a mere wisp of light was falling on his rug, 
from the opposite wall. Through a keyhole. There 
was a door over there. A door between his room and 
Isabel’s. Of course, the landlady would give them 
adjoining rooms—thinking them what they were 
not— 

He heard something throbbing in the room. Com¬ 
ing in through the windows—the sound of the breakers 
beating on the beach? He held his breath to listen, 
and the throbbing stopped. His heart bursting, 
breaking on that forbidden shore ! 

He stood watching the wisp of light, watching it 
flicker, go out, and come back again. A soft rustle 
on the other side of the door, as Isabel moved softly 
about, preparing for her rest. Watching the shadow 


ON THE LATCH 


283 

her passing threw. No shadow ever falling from Isa¬ 
bel herself. Like blessed sunlight, Isabel, making 
thoughts, as plants long since thought dead, start a 
blossoming. And like moonlight falling on ugly walls, 
silvering them and giving them dignity and beauty. 
He wanted to think of her that night as moonlight. 
He wanted to quiet this pounding of his heart by 
telling himself that this wild surging of his blood 
would pass, that she meant more than joy to him, that 
when this was over, she would mean peace and 
strength, peace yielding strength, and strength renew¬ 
ing peace. Even while his heart was thumping against 
the walls of his ribs, he knew what she meant to him, 
what this wild moment wanted to steal from them. 

A door was being gently opened into the hall. Isa¬ 
bel’s door. He heard her going out into the hall, 
shutting her door, and a minute later, another door 
opening and closing. 

His hands feeling the darkness, beating the air that 
he might not collide into furniture, he moved drunk- 
enly towards her room. Not walking towards her 
door, that he might touch it in the darkness, but being 
pushed, being swept. His hand touched the wooden 
surface. His fingers moved towards the knob. 

Slowly, he turned it, but the door did not open. 
The door was locked. Of course, the door was 
locked. 

His fingers made a discovery. The key was on his 
side. 

While she was out of her room, he could open the 
door, get a swift picture of her setting. He wanted 


284 THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 

that picture, of her flowers, and her books and her 
roses. It would be only a glance, before she came 
back— 

Unlock that door, Wade Graeme, and expect to 
lock it again? With that tide bearing you away, that 
storm surging in your ears? The influence of the 
music still with you, the perfumes of that garden be¬ 
low overcoming you; people in the house asleep; 
everybody sleeping but yourself and Isabel, the woman 
the cottage people think is your wife, so they leave the 
key in the door. 

Not wrong to turn that knob, and look at the nest 
of his beloved— If he yielded to the force which w r as 
then trying that key, would he have the strength to 
leave when Isabel came tiptoeing back? 

Turning the key deliberately, and taking it out. 
Dropping it on the floor in the darkness where it can’t 
be found unless a match is struck, and he wasn’t going 
to strike that match! The door locked, the key fall¬ 
ing softly to the floor, lying on the dark floor. 

H is face pressed against her door. Not praying, 
the feeling too deep for words which left him 
stranded, his cheek against her door. Like a prayer, 
the cry which was going up from that dark room at 
Brighton, that the eyes he loved might never look 
shamed or sorry because of his love for her. 

He could hear a step creaking, then another, Isabel 
going downstairs. A minute later, he saw a light 
from the lower floor flickering on the tree-tops of the 
widow’s garden. Then blackness again, and the steps 
creaking, a sound of ice clinking against a glass pitcher 


ON THE LATCH 285 

as Isabel carried it guardedly through the sleeping 
house to her room. 

To his room. He heard her setting it down, softly, 
at his door, the one which led into the hall. 

The shadow of her passing fell again across the 
rug, the chink of light larger because of the key which 
was lying somewhere on the dark floor. He could hear 
her brushing her soft, beautiful hair, and he wanted to 
see her brushing it. He heard her moving about her 
room, softly, so as not to waken the others sleeping 
near her. Once, the soft footsteps came to his door, 
pausing, as though she were listening, as though she 
wanted to ask is there anything he wants? and say that 
she had left drinking water at his door. He could 
hear her soft breathing as she listened, wondering 
whether he were so soon asleep, the thief with his 
cheek pressed against her door! He said a wordless 
prayer when he heard her going aw r ay. 

Praying the minute before that she would speak to 
him, and then thanking God that she did not. Want¬ 
ing to whisper to her, telling that he was there in the 
dark, his face against her door. And being glad that 
it was over. Being glad that she had gone. Nothing 
even now to prevent his striking a match and finding 
that key. But he wasn’t going to strike that match. 
The key was going to stay on the floor. 

The wisp of light was getting smaller. Isabel was 
slowly putting out the light. Still a wisp of light, 
slender, rosy. A night light being left. Isabel going 
to sleep— 

Loving her! Loving her! 


286 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


Damned honeysuckle stifling him! He felt cramped 
and cold, but he didn’t dare move away yet, for some 
time yet. When he was sure that she was asleep, he 
was going to creep out of that room where the honey¬ 
suckle was smothering him. 

He thought he might rest awhile first, stepping softly 
on the rug, so that Isabel would not hear him. The 
bed springs were noisy; they creaked when he threw 
himself on the coverlet. He had an infernal head¬ 
ache. 

A fiend planned it, making it so damnably hard, 
so damnably sweet. And making it seem right,—that 
the devil’s touch! 

Or, if it were not wrong, a love like this, then ter¬ 
rible the martyrdoms which deny themselves to love! 
Who can blame the boys and girls, men and women 
who haven’t been taught to struggle, who haven’t been 
warned that it’s going to seem right? Can it be as 
hard with them, or is it only when it is a woman like 
Isabel, with fragrance and charm as well as sweetness? 

Charm of goodness, that’s the pull of Isabel. 

Can love come like this to rough men and women, 
to the boys of the city streets and their vulgar sweet¬ 
hearts? Love that leads on to night-walking and the 
swift moth-like death? Hard to believe it can be so. 
Makes one shudder at life— But those men would 
love in their own way, wouldn’t they? And would 
love their own kind. So to them, it would be as hard. 
Fiend who made it so, or martyrs keeping it so? 

Isabel felt safe at Brighton, she said. Safe from 
Blood, she meant. She was going to feel safe from 
him, too. The key, lying on the floor, his letter. 


ON THE LATCH 


287 

would tell her in the morning, that she was always 
going to be safe with him. 

He was already glad that it had ended so. For 
it had ended. He was going back that night to Lon¬ 
don, and he wouldn’t come back until he could trust 
himself with her. A queer exaltation was coming to 
him, the elation of conquest. It made him feel more 
than a man that minute, being master of himself. 
Maybe it isn’t a fiend. Maybe that’s the answer? 
This feeling of his he had before, once when he had 
had to fast, at college, for a lost bet. When the first 
hunger passed, a stimulus took its place, mind and 
spirit both quickened, the body rarefied, exalted. 

It was an hour or so later when he got up, wonder¬ 
ing if he had slept. He crossed noiselessly to the win¬ 
dow to look at the sky where a gibbous moon was ris¬ 
ing. He had thought the dawn was creeping in. He 
could see the outline of the sleeping garden, the paths, 
the massed beds where the hollyhocks were swaying 
their heavy heads, a soft, upspringing breeze swaying 
them. 

Isabel’s shade was up. The curtains were blowing 
apart. A shaded light was giving a faint rosy glow. 
He could see the foot of her bed, where a coverlet 
was slipping to the floor. If he leaned out the win¬ 
dow, he could see her sleeping, Isabel sleeping— He 
could swing from that honeysuckle branch, stout as 
a man’s forearm, into that room, through the open 
window where the curtains were blowing— 

Instead, he was going to pull his own shade close. 
He was going to strike a match, and find out from 
his railway guide what hours the London trains left. 


288 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


One left at four-thirty. It must be past that now. 
His watch insisted that it was not yet three-thirty. 
He had time to scrawl a letter to Isabel, telling her 
why he must leave her, and that he may not be back 
for a while. Going to tell her bow he adores her, 
how he wants her to keep her trust in him. Going to 
tell her that when she reads that note, he will be back 
in London, working harder than ever, to earn the 
money which will take her to Paris. 

What he did write was: “Isabel, understand it! 
Wade.” 

Letting himself out quietly into the dark hall, he 
moved down the steps, stopping on each one because it 
creaked, and groping slowly through the narrow lower 
hall for the door. A moon-washed street waited him. 

Once safely out of the house, he hastened, running 
lest his watch which was getting unreliable were wrong 
and he miss that train. Ten minutes ahead of time 
he panted into the drowsing station. 

He awoke several times before he reached London. 
It seemed strange to be going back to London. 
Dreaming of grotesque things, of honeysuckle growing 
out of a keyhole, he would waken to find his neigh¬ 
bours snoring, swaying against him, keeping him 
awake! And then honeysuckle, ropes of it, like kelp 
lying on a wave washed beach where all the faces 
looked like Isabel. 

Guards roused him. They were steaming into Lon¬ 
don. 

London. Not Brighton. Morning. Thank God, 
London and morning! 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


REVELATIO.N 

B LINDLY, he made his way towards the office. 
He could not go home. Alma would insist on 
knowing what the matter was, for hadn’t he 
told her that he would be away until Monday? His 
spirit felt defenceless to her onslaughts. He was ex¬ 
hausted, moreover, from the night’s vigil. 

Even his short naps in the train had been troubled. 
He had been jostled by his neighbours, the air had 
been bad, because one man was afraid he might keep 
his cold to himself. The rest room was beckoning to 
him. He went on to Fetter Lane. 

It was noon when he wakened. He had slept like 
a drunken sailor! 

Isabel, he thought, had been up for hours. She 
had discovered his flight, had discovered the note 
which he had slipped under her door. 

He could think now, calmly. Only a few hours 
away from that frenzy, and grateful that he could 
think of her without bitterness or regret. He could 
be picturing her in her room which she had beautified 
with books and flowers, seeing her making chocolate, 
and reading the letter he had written her. 

It was too late for church, or he’d go in search of 
some splendid organ music. This feeling of renuncia¬ 
tion that still held the thrill of exaltation demanded 

289 


290 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


that sort of outlet: choruses of soaring voices, or the 
vox humana. But it was too late for church. 

He would find breakfast in the neighbourhood, and 
then spend the rest of the afternoon, riding around 
London. For he couldn’t face a Sunday at home, 
even if he wished to meet Alma’s questions. Nor 
could he write, or read, when all he wanted to do was 
to live that night over again, to think of Isabel. 

Hours later, after dusk had fallen, be let himself 
into his own hall. He was astonished to hear voices. 
So surprised to hear a stranger’s voice coming from 
the sitting-room that he paused, his key in the lock, 
listening. 

Alma’s words were the first he caught. Amazing 
words Alma was uttering. 

“I’ve no more money. I can’t squeeze out any 
more without his knowing. He’s beginning to think 
something’s wrong, he asks questions about the money, 
about the cost of things.” 

“I don’t care how you get it, or what he asks.” 
The stranger’s voice was speaking. “But I’m in a hole, 
and I’ve got to have it. Borrow it. Take it. Or 
I’ll have to go to him, or write to your father.” 

Alma’s voice came back swiftly. “You wouldn’t 
do that! You can’t go to him, after all these years, 
let him know how you have been crushing me! Then 
all the money will stop. You’ll get nothing. You’ll 
kill the goose with the golden eggs, and you know it. 
I’m the goose, worse than a goose to have done for 
you so long.” 

“It’ll be worse for you than me if I do tell him. 


REVELATION 


291 


He’ll buy my silence all right. He won’t want peo¬ 
ple to be knowing how you have fooled him all these 
years.” 

Her voice again, troubled, thickened, but not angry. 
“I almost wish as you would. And get it over with. 
Sometimes, I almost think as I’ll tell him. You ought 
to be taking care of your own child. I oughtn’t to 
be letting him doing it.” 

“Your own child.” Little Alma! The hand hold¬ 
ing the key had not moved. Graeme stood, transfixed. 

“You can never prove it. Oh, you’re pretending to 
be brave, you are! You don’t want them to know, 
your father, the rest, and he’ll tell ’em all right!” 

Graeme heard Alma weeping. Alma! It was a 
strange sound in that house. Not since the Cape had 
Alma wept. 

Not his child? The child of that man in there? 
The gold-headed stick that night, his stick! Krieger, 
that’s why she’s crying, afraid of him, doesn’t want 
him to know. She planned to be out that night, on 
the mountain, then, she knew what her father would 
do. Somebody had to save her from her father’s 
rage, and he was the sacrifice! All those years! 

Hated him! Of course, she’d hated him! Her 
condition! he sat down on the front step, laughing 
aloud. He saw people passing, and staring at him 
as he sat alone there, laughing, hugging his knees. 
Said she’d fallen downstairs. Fallen downstairs! 

Alma’s scared face peered out at him through the 
dingy curtains. He could hear a scuffling of feet into 
the dining-room, and out into the kitchen. He didn’t 


292 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


want to meet him, he needn’t be afraid. He didn’t 
want to soil his hands with him. She wasn’t his wife, 
really, Alma wasn’t. Not his wife! 

Thank God! He owed her nothing. But what 
did she owe him?— 

“Come in the house. For God’s sake, Wade, come 
in, and shut the door. All the neighbours hearing you.” 

What did those terrible crushing years mean? He 
had been knuckling under to her, thinking himself a 
failure, helping to support that cur. That sordid, 
vulgar house, the starvation of his soul, for that cur, 
where had he gone? He wanted to crush his head 
in, but Bird Place? He owed them, Alma and that 
cur, Isabel. 

“Come in. They will think you are crazy,” pled 
Alma’s white lips. 

He stared at her hard, calculating face, without 
heeding her words. Had she ever loved that brute 
who would have let her be the jest, the scorn of the 
Cape people? Had it ever been in her to care? Not 
caring now. Just fearing, fearing that her father 
might be told, that her people might know. Not 
minding if he knew, unless he told them, cast her off, 
refused his name to little Alma—as if it mattered to 
little Alma what kind of a name she bore ! 

They had stolen his youth from him, his courage. 
If it hadn’t been for Isabel—Isabel, at Brighton, wait¬ 
ing! 

He stood up, dusting his coat. 

“Come in,” she begged. “I will tell you about it.” 

He knew he was looking queerly, for she shrank 
away from him. She thought he was going to strike 


REVELATION 


293 


her, did she? That he had grown to be like her kind? 
Like old Krieger. Thought he was going to send her 
back to Krieger. 

He started dizzily down the steps. 

“Where are you going?” she said. 

“That,” he said, “you will never ask me again.” 

He was going to Brighton. To Isabel. Not 
thinking why. Just going to end the irony of it all. 
He could talk now about Alma to Isabel. He would 
want to talk to her, to loosen the pent-up shame of 
the years back of him. He would want to talk to 
her about his mother, what it had done to his mother. 
Why had he let that cur go? He wouldn’t have let 
him go if he had thought of what it had meant to 
his mother. 

Going again to Brighton. Queer, to be going back 
to Brighton. 

He would go down to the beach with Isabel, and 
sit with her, planning the trip at once to Paris, plan¬ 
ning to get her started. The money he’d been giv¬ 
ing Alma could go now to Isabel. It didn’t mean 
their being together, for there was Blood, although 
he was free— 

He wasn’t free. He was still in the eyes of the law 
Alma’s husband. Not the father of her child, but 
still her husband. To be free, he would have to drag 
her story into court—still he would do that, because of 
Isabel, if there were any chance of getting free of 
Blood. Both of them still belonging. With mire to 
wade through, before they could reach one another. 

But freedom for Isabel. That he was bringing 
her. 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


294 

The widow of the cottage opened the door for him. 
He saw her expression harden when he told her who 
it was he had come to see. He said that he was Mrs. 
Sorbier’s—husband. 

“One last night, and another this morning, and 
then you tonight. She did take me in with her in¬ 
nocent face.” She put one foot against the door. 

She misunderstood! He hastened to tell her that 
it was he who had been there last night, leaving early 
that morning. Business in London. He had to 
talk to her about it now. 

“Then who was the one as took her away with 
him?” 

He was dumbfounded. “Took her away?” 

“Called himself her husband, too. And she didn’t 
deny it. Crying, oh yes. She didn’t want to go with 
her husband, one could see that.” 

Isabel gone? 

“It isn’t for me to decide which is her husband! 
She took me in all right, and me with a daughter and 
name for the house to keep. I’d never have thought 
it of her with that face! And my treating her like a 
daughter, lending her a stove! It’s references, al¬ 
ways after this, for me!” 

Isabel gone! 

“And me out for a room last night!” 

“Did he, did she, pay for her room? That was 
my business, not her father’s, to pay for her room,” 
bluffed Graeme. 

He saw her looking at him doubtfully. “Yes, he 
paid, for her, indeed. Or I would have kept her 


REVELATION 


295 

things. Not much her clothes weren’t, but my girl 
could have had some use out of ’em.” 

“I want to pay for my room,” said Wade. 

“Nobody slept in it,” she flung back at him. “You 
can pay, though, if you were the one that was here.” 

He added an extra shilling. “Was he a big, stout 
man? Oldish?” 

“He was tall, taller than you. Older. Not old.” 
She was eyeing him dubiously. 

“Did they go to London? Where did they send 
the baggage?” 

She shut up like a clam. “It’s none of my busi¬ 
ness where they went. I’m not going to be dragged 
into any divorce or abduction suit, with the name of 
my house to keep up. I’ll swear I never laid eyes on 
any of you before !” 

She slammed the door. Graeme stood on the 
porch, where they had stood the night before. 

Isabel, in his clutches, again. Isabel, at Bird Place? 

Several hours later, he let himself into his own 
hall. Alma came down in a wrapper to see what he 
was doing there; to discover, he knew, what he was 
going to do with her. She was in a fever, of course, 
to know if he were going to ship her back to the Cape. 

“I haven’t thought it out, what I’m going to do. 
You can be finding work—and I’ll stay on here, for 
awhile.” 

He saw the contemptuous look flicker over her 
face. She thought him a poor thing, afraid of her, 
or afraid to be spending money, until the new month 
began. Not like Krieger, not like the Cape men. 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


296 

What did he care what she was thinking of him? 
He had to be at Bird Place, to watch for Isabel. 

“You're husky, you can board the child out, and get 
work during the day. You can be looking out for 
another house for you and the child, if you're going 
to keep her with you. I'll board with you, while 
you're still here. Pay you for my room and board.” 

He watched her leave the room, in her felt slippers 
and old wrapper with some of the old bravado in her 
face. She wasn't going to be sent back to the Cape. 
That's all she cared about, not being sent back to the 
Cape, not having people know— 

She thought he'd knuckle under, did she? that they 
would fall back to the same old miserable ways? 
Well, she could think it. She’d see. 

“Keep that—cur—away while I’m here,” he called 
after her, “or I’ll break his head for him.” 

She sent another subtracting, contemptuous look, 
over her listing shoulder. 

She was thinking: “Not a man. Not like my 
father, or the men at the Cape.” 

Let her think. He was at Bird Place, near Isabel! 


CHAPTER XXIX 


HARD LABOUR 

H E told himself that he had to put a stop to 
the deadly round of work and worry and 
sleeplessness or he wouldn’t last much longer. 
Reeling for sleep in the daytime, his head nodding over 
his work, having to go over it to see if he had made 
a mistake and watching to see that Hobbs and Gryce 
hadn’t discovered yet what’s the matter with him; dy¬ 
ing for sleep, until his head touched the pillows where 
the demon called Insomnia was waiting for him. 

He was doing rotten work; he wasn’t earning his 
salary. Only a question of days when every one 
would know it, when Knight, the martinet, would 
know it, and even Fackenthal’s kindliness wouldn’t be 
able to save him. Fackenthal, the office knew, had 
his way about most things, but when it came to rou¬ 
tine, to the output of work turned out, Knight was 
the general. 

The third day after his return from Brighton, he 
did the amazing thing of demanding an hour off in the 
morning, and went boldly back to Bird Place, walking 
up Isabel’s steps, and asking to see the lady of the 
house. 

“Which one?” demanded the woman who had an¬ 
swered his ring. “Mother or daughter?” 

She was a servant, and sixty. Graeme met the sus- 

297 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


298 

picion in her eyes, and answered: “It’s your mother, 
I want to see.” 

“Well, you can’t see her,” and the door was shut 
in his face. But not before he had caught a glimpse 
of the room of roses, with her books, her basket of 
sewing, a bowl of spreading ferns on the table. 

He had to get a message to Isabel. He wanted 
her to know that he was leaving Bird Place. That 
she was to get him at the office, in the daytime, if she 
could ever get out alone. That she must seize her op¬ 
portunity no matter when it came, and come to him. 

Korniloff was the man who could do it for him. 
He told the Russian enough to get his sympathy, 
Korniloff promised gladly to get that message to Isa¬ 
bel if he were allowed to get near her, and would 
bring back, if possible, a word or a line from her. 
He was to ask for Mrs. Blood, Mrs. Isabel Blood. 
For Graeme was convinced that the servant was obey¬ 
ing Blood’s orders, trying to trap him by asking if he 
wanted to see mother or daughter. 

The Russian gave a crestfallen report. A woman 
who looked like a servant had answered the door. 
She told him the Bloods had moved a few days be¬ 
fore. “She did not know their address! She was 
tired answering the doorbell for the Bloods. She 
hoped their friends would soon know they had gone.” 

Korniloff had been instructed to keep his eyes open, 
and he described the hall, the room he had observed 
through the blowing curtains before he rang the bell. 
Shaded lamps, and books, and flowers and cushions, 
it wasn’t likely, the men thought, talking it over, that 


HARD LABOUR 


299 

Isabel would leave her things behind her if she had 
gone a year. A year’s lease, the woman had told 
Korniloff, she had taken. 

Not yet would Graeme give up. After weighing 
the various ways by which he might get into the house 
at Bird Place, he chose drains. His plan involved 
another morning off, and some workman’s clothes, 
which Korniloff secured for him. The Russian also 
found a place near Haberdasher Street where he 
could get into his disguising outfit. 

With a bag of plumber’s tools in his blackened, 
greasy hands, his face covered with grease and a 
week’s growth of beard which the office force had not 
yet ridiculed him into losing, he marched again up 
Blood’s steps. The same woman answered his ring. 

He told her that he had come to see about the 
drains. 

She looked at him sharply. “What name have you 
on that card?” 

He had thought this out. He knew he would be 
asked what name. “They didn’t give me no name, 
just the number, the office said there was a complaint 
—that I was to go out and see what was wrong, and if 
it didn’t cost too much, more than a few shillings, 
to put it right whatever it was. If it was a real job, 
like a half day’s labour, the landlord would have to be 
told first. A tight purse, fancy he is!” 

The story, he knew, would ring like truth. The 
group of houses belonged to one man; the Graemes 
had needed to have drains attended to during that 
last eight years, and he knew the procedure! 


300 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


“I haven’t heard about the drains choking up,” 
said the woman, uncertainly, still holding the door¬ 
knob. 

“I don’t know that they’re choked. I don’t know 
what’s the matter. It’s the bathroom,” he added, 
pulling a grimy notebook from his pocket. 

She was about to let him pass when he could see 
a thought strike her. “I’ll ask Mr.—the master 
about it when he comes home.” 

Again the door was shut in his face. He could 
hear her go into the sitting-room, and he knew he was 
going to be stared at through the curtains. She 
looked as though she had recognized him, had sud¬ 
denly realized that he had been there before. Or 
perhaps, he thought as he went slowly down the stairs, 
she had remembered instructions about letting no one 
in the house. Fruitless, that elaborate errand. 

And yet, not fruitless, after all, for as he turned 
to survey the house, as though to compare the number 
with that in his notebook, the upper curtains moved, 
and Isabel’s face looked down on him. A brave smile 
she sent him, and he could not answer it with that 
woman peering out from 1 the room below. He stared 
at her, as long as he dared, and then glancing again 
at his notebook, he slowly nodded. The two women 
could make their own translation of that nod. 

Isabel was there. That meant it was only a ques¬ 
tion of time before she found a way of getting out, 
of coming to him. That meant his staying at Bird 
Place, being on watch, being ready for her summons. 

That night, he asked Alma had she found a cheaper 
place for herself and the child. 


HARD LABOUR 


301 


“Where are you going?” she asked. 

“I said I would never answer that question again,” 
returned Graeme. “Please notice that I am not ask¬ 
ing you where you are going, but when? I want to 
make my own arrangements.” 

“How many of these things will you want?” 

Husband and wife looked at the furnishings with 
different emotions. Graeme knew that she was fear¬ 
ing he would want the dreadful things— 

“Nothing,” he felt the muscles of his face tighten¬ 
ing. Want anything to remind him of those terrible 
years? He’d like to burn them, if that would end the 
memories. If Alma wanted them! 

He saw a look of relief spread over her face. As 
if it were an afterthought, he added: “Leave the 
things I bought,—my set. I’ll—dispose of that.” 

A few days later, when he went to the breakfast 
table, Alma was dressed for the street. That night, 
a scared-looking girl came into the hall when he 
entered, little Alma clinging to her hand. She jumped 
as though she had been hit when he asked her if din¬ 
ner were ready. Dinner? She didn’t know how to 
cook. She was to tend the child! 

The changes had begun! 

Alma had left the house before he was up the next 
morning. Her room was in confusion. She was be¬ 
ginning to pack, to get ready to move. 

All that day, while his fingers tabulated for his firm, 
his mind was asking how he could get word to Isabel 
that he was not leaving Bird Place? She would see 
the furniture leaving the house, she would watch it 
through those sad curtains, and would think he was 



THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


302 

deserting her. How could he get a message to her ? 

Two nights later, when he let himself into his hall, 
hollow echoes answered him. Lighting the gas jet, 
he saw a dismantled house. Alma and the child had 
gone. That chapter was closed. 

Graeme sat down upon the lower step of the inner 
staircase. He sat there for a long time, thinking. 
Then he went about the house, making a survey of 
its emptiness, trying the doors, the windows. 

On his dresser, there was a note from Alma. “I’ve 
left the water and lights on for you,” it ran. “Every¬ 
thing else is finished, and paid for. Alma.” She had 
added a Shoreditch address. 

He sat on the side of his bed, thinking. He sat 
thinking until his head drooped with sleep. When he 
got into bed, he was wide awake at once. He did not 
sleep at all that night. 

Nor the next. 

Then he began to tell himself that he had to put a 
stop to it. But saying he must stop it didn’t bring him 
sleep at night, nor wakefulness by day. 

He was drinking strong coffee for breakfast and 
luncheon so that he would know what he was doing at 
the office, drinking ale the last thing before going 
home, before going slowly past her windows, praying 
that some night she would look out as he was walk¬ 
ing past, and know that he had not deserted her. A 
thought came to him one night when he realized that 
the absence of vacancy signs might tell her that some 
one was there still, even though the furniture had 
gone. On Sunday, he made a great to do of putting 
up window boxes, upstairs and downstairs, of having 


HARD LABOUR 


303 

earth hauled there and dumped in his front garden, 
just before church time, of having flowers in pots left 
on his steps. Violets and roses, violet and rose 
plants. A message of cheer for a passing Isabel. 

That night, he slept a few hours. The physical 
labour, he told himself, was what he needed. But the 
next night, though he tried all the cures and lures, he 
did not fall asleep until an hour before rising time. 

He was late that day at the office. That evening 
he bought an alarm clock, smiling grimly all the way 
home, as he listened to its loud ticking. Queer, after 
ten years, to lose one’s wife, and to acknowledge but 
one deprivation which can be met by a five shilling 
alarm clock! Completely independent now of Alma! 

But though the clock would rouse him in the morn¬ 
ing, it offered him no peace at night. Even its reg¬ 
ular loud ticking did not help him. Nothing helped 
him. If it had not been for the comfort which fell to 
him on Saturday afternoons and Sundays, he could not 
have kept going. As it was, he was growing hag¬ 
gard. All the men in the office noticed it. Facken- 
thal looked sharply at him one morning, the look ask¬ 
ing him if he were going to fall back again? 

Fackenthal’s look sent him back to his writing, but 
it failed to summon the writing mood back to him. 
He couldn’t write, when all he could think of was 
Isabel: whether she had seen the message of the win¬ 
dow boxes, and knew that he was there waiting—or 
perhaps had not seen the furniture being carried away, 
after all. 

Several weeks of this misery led Graeme to the dis¬ 
covery that sleeplessness can mean serious illness. 


304 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 




He did not possess much accurate information about 
symptoms, for he had rarely been sick, but suddenly 
everything seemed to be the matter with him. He 
couldn’t lay a finger on any of his machinery that was 
right. His machinery, he told Korniloff, was all 
gone balmy. 

Hospitals and nurses faced him. And then what? 
Savings all gone, beginning all over again. That 
couldn’t be allowed to happen. Too ghastly, to let 
that happen. And that would just be the minute for 
Isabel to send for him, wanting him to help her get 
away. 

He spent an evening with Korniloff and the sym¬ 
pathetic Marie, now deeply interested in Isabel. He 
told them that he had to break the spell, or he would 
himself break. 

“For God’s sake, can’t you get me a job,” he urged. 
“Hard labour, anything, Korniloff, digging, anything 
as long as it’s hard. If I can buy three meals a day 
on it, and pay my rent. I don’t know where to go 
after it. I thought you might steer me. I don’t 
want to talk about it at the office, with Hobbs and the 
rest.” 

“Of course you don’t,” agreed Marie. Korniloff’s 
sympathy was as warm. There was a touch of the 
feminine, it occurred to Graeme, in Korniloff. 

“I’ve a friend, foreman to a big contractor. I’ll 
write a card. He’ll give you what you want, if you’re 
willing to take less than half wages, for you do look 
rotten, Graeme. No one will believe that you can do 
a full day’s work.” 

“I’m offering a half one,” said Wade. 


HARD LABOUR 


305 

Korniloff got a job for him, at four shillings a day. 
Graeme went straight from the foreman’s office to 
Fackenthal’s. He announced that he had to have, at 
once, an indefinite leave of absence. 

“Things going wrong, Wade?” 

Graeme could see that he was trying to look uncon¬ 
cerned, as though the request were not unusual, and as 
though it were not a wreck, or a ghost, making it. 

“It may be sickness, I don’t know. I’ve never met 
that Fury yet.” He was trying to be casual, sprightly, 
with that demon of dizziness swaying him, with the 
demonic singing in his ears. “It’s insomnia, beginning 
that way. I'm drunk for sleep. Dead all day to get 
to bed, and no sleep when I get there. I can’t stand 
it another day.” 

Fackenthal’s expression agreed with him. 

“I can’t get through my office work. I’ve begun to 
make mistakes, rotten mistakes. I’ll be thrown out, 
pretty soon. I don’t want that to happen. I want 
the chance to come back. I don’t want to tell the 
office what I’m going to do.” And he told of the 
sleep that had come to him the Sunday he had laboured 
making window boxes, and of his four shilling job. 

Fackenthal, he could see, was vastly relieved. “I’m 
glad you didn’t try drugs, or liquor, one of those bad 
nights, Wade. That’s the time men begin. This 
will pull you together.” 

“If anything will,” thought Graeme. It felt like 
the end of everything to him. He thought dying 
must feel like this, seeing everything through a haze, 
seeing Fackenthal as though afar off, knowing his 
hands were trembling, and that he had a rotten 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


306 

glance, like a man who has been stealing, or drinking. 

“Your wife knows?” 

No, she didn’t know. 

“If she asks about you what shall I say, my boy?” 

She wouldn’t ask. He could see that Fackenthal 
looked troubled, so added, “I’m going back every 
night to Bird Place.” Plenty of time to tell Facken¬ 
thal about Alma. When he knew that he could say 
what he wanted to say. 

“Going to begin to-morrow?” 

“Going to begin to-morrow, thank God.” 

“Will you drop me a line, how you’re doing? Just 
lock your desk, and then forget it. You’re on sick 
leave now, till you come back, Wade. Good luck!” 

Trying to clear up his desk, and making a mess of 
it. Dropping the lid, as Fackenthal had advised, and 
going out of the office, knowing that all the men were 
looking at one another after the door was shut, and 
w r ondering. Going down into the street, and trying to 
remember which way he was going, and where he was 
going and why. Eating somewhere, eating something 
that tasted like sawdust, and then going heme, and 
trying to read. Sleeping an hour, and then going out 
to eat more sawdust, and then going back to bed to 
stay awake all night. With the ocean roaring in his 
ears, and trying to think he was on the ocean, and his 
ship was plunging, himself getting sleepy from the 
motion and the sea air; but nothing helped. He might 
as well get up, and go past her windows, his hat pulled 
over his eyes. Nobody would be watching at two 
o’clock at night, unless it might be Isabel. 

And crawling back to bed to think about the ocean 


HARD LABOUR 


307 

and sea air, when suddenly the alarm clock summoned 
him— 

Then excavating a cellar; a cellar some man afar 
off told him was for a shop. So sleepy that a haze 
came between him and his shovel and pick, between 
himself and the faces of the other men. The first 
hour was endless, and the second; the rest of the day 
a frightful nausea of weariness and daze and misery. 
But he slept that night from seven to five when the 
alarm went off. 

In a daze the next day, his muscles so sore that they 
felt as though his bones were being stripped. But too 
dizzy and miserable to care. Tired unto death, but 
thinking of the way he was going to sleep twelve hours 
that night! 

A w^eek of it and the office began to call. The blur 
was beginning to pass from things, he knew what his 
companions looked like, and he was sleeping eleven 
hours every night. He had pleasant thoughts of an 
easy desk, and a pen, an easy job with men he was dis¬ 
covering an affection for. He made himself face the 
routine, Bird Place to Fetter Lane, Fetter Lane to 
Bird Place with no sleep in between, and the feeling 
of nausea overcame him again. Feeling again like a 
squirrel in a cage, going back and forth, and back 
again, worrying, watching her windows, and getting 
up to watch her windows. He wasn’t ready for the 
routine yet. 

He was digging another cellar for a shop, on Bond 
Street. His muscles no longer sore, and vastly proud 
because he was earning now a real man’s wage. Bond 
Street needed more room for stock, for toggeries, for 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


308 

women who think that they are objets d’art, and so he 
is flung a chance to earn some shillings and some more 
night-sleep. What would the wool and goat’s hair 
clerks think if they chanced on him, flannel-shirted and 
grimy? Think writing for the Globe didn’t pay much 
after all, they would! 

Getting up one morning, he had a splendid zest for 
breakfast. His muscles craved exercise; he went with 
anticipation to his Bond Street cellar. 

He enjoyed loitering that day at noon with one of 
his fellow labourers, himself with his paper lunchbox 
bought at a nearby store and the other fellow with a 
tin box put up at his home. The next day, he en¬ 
larged his circle. He found that his fellow workers 
came from every part of the globe. Men of the 
gypsy type, who love to rove, and take no heed of the 
morrow. Foul-mouthed, most of them, their stories 
as bald as those of sailors, obscene and shocking, to a 
man who has knocked about, but tender—see ’em 
when a horse falls, and has to be shot, or when a child 
ventures too near a caving bank— 

He was getting to feel at home with these men, no 
longer like an outsider. Interesting to be able to feel 
at home with so many kinds of men, Fackenthal’s sort, 
and Korniloff’s and now these fellows. 

Though he was worried, still, about Isabel, he was 
able to think of her without wincing, as though red- 
hot irons were being placed against his skin. He was 
rational and rested enough now to see that worrying 
himself drunk about her was going to do Isabel no 
good. And that what they had to stand, they had to 
stand. 


HARD LABOUR 


309 


That’s life, he thought over his lunchbox, as he 
listened to one man’s reminiscences which covered two 
continents. All of ’em standing something, the 
things one let’s oneself get into. Those fellows, what 
had they been through? ’D make his life read like a 
society column in the weeklies. 

He promised himself he would stay until he could 
think of Bird Place and Alma and Isabel and of Fetter 
Lane, with its figures and its rest room, and his Globe 
articles without that sense of nausea. 

Four months after his abrupt leaving, he turned up 
at Fackenthal, Knight and Company’s, one morning, 
bronzed, hand-toughened, but clear and steady eyed. 

“Sleeping?” asked Fackenthal. 

“Don’t I look like it?” 

“Like a bulldog. I’ll never fret about you again, 
Wade!” 


CHAPTER XXX 


IS THIS WHAT GOD MEANT? 

H E was startled from his sleep. In his dreams, 
excavating a London cellar, and hearing her 
calling him, his name, and surely Isabel’s 

voice. 

Wide awake at once, he jumped out of bed, standing 
in the dark, listening. Deathly silence from the 
empty house answered him. But though he did not 
hear anything, he knew that she was needing him. It 
was as though he could see her, in distress, and holding 
out her hands to him. 

Without stopping to make a light, he slipped into 
his clothes. His fingers, stiff and clumsy with sleep 
and haste, fumbled maddeningly with buttons and 
straps. 

The light was burning low in the hall, as he had 
left it. He was slipping into his coat as he went down 
the stairs. He ran down the street towards her 
house. 

He stopped, dashed by his own folly, seeing no one. 
He told himself that he had been dreaming that Isabel 
had called him. 

A shape disentangled itself from the wall where it 
had been hiding. Starlight revealing such a piteous, 
terrified Isabel! 

“Wade!” 


310 


IS THIS WHAT GOD MEANT? 311 

She was trembling, he thought with cold as well as 
fear. He tried to take her in his arms, but she shrank 
from him. 

“Just get me away from here, quick, Wade!” 

“Are you warm enough?” A storm was threat¬ 
ening. Frost was in the air. 

That made no difference, she told him, whether she 
were cold. Nothing mattered, except to get her away 
from there. To get away, before he changed his 
mind. 

“What have you on?” 

He could see that she was not fully dressed. She 
had a coat, and what he thought was a wrapper, or 
housegown, underneath. She had thrust her feet, 
hastily, into bedroom shoes. 

It was all right, she repeated. All she wanted was 
to get away quickly. 

He tried to persuade her to go back to his house 
with him; there was no one there, and he could gather 
up a few warm coats; but Isabel was in a panic of fear. 
It was not safe for her to stay in Bird Place. She 
was afraid he might leave her. 

Leave her? Would he ever leave her again? 

He put his hand through her arm, and they went 
down the street, his thoughts rioting. 

Were they leaving it forever, not only Bird Place, 
but everything, he and Isabel? Was that the way it 
was going to end, after all, running away together, 
hiding somewhere? He could feel her shivering. 

As soon as he had rounded the corner, well out of 
sight of the house she had left, Graeme blew for a 
hansom, standing in front of Isabel, and trying to 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


312 

shield her from the wind. The light of the street 
lamp fell on her, showing him that her coat, as well as 
the things she had on underneath, was thin. He 
dragged off his own coat, and tried to wrap it around 
her. Though she gave in at last, and put it around 
her shoulders, she would not let him do it for her. 
It seemed a strange, unfriendly Isabel. 

A hansom came hurrying towards them. 

“Where, sir?” He showed no surprise to find a 
man, coatless, the man’s coat around a strangely 
garbed woman. It takes a good deal of strange¬ 
ness to get surprise from a London cabby after mid¬ 
night. 

“A hotel. The nearest decent hotel.” 

“No preference?” 

“Decent and near, I said. The lady’s ill.” 

Ill, and standing on the street corner, a frosty wind 
blowing, sparely dressed with her feet shod in bed¬ 
room slippers! If it were not so sinister, this thrust¬ 
ing Isabel out into the night, he could have laughed at 
his stupid words. 

Turned her out. Isabel would not have chosen to 
leave the house in that condition. 

Thank God, he'd awakened to that silent cry! 

He asked her how long she had been standing 
there ? 

She did not know. She had been so frightened. 
She was afraid some one would see her, like that, she 
did not know if there were anybody else at his house. 
It seemed a long time that she had been there, praying 
him to come past, as she had so often seen him come, 
late at night, looking up at her windows, but she sup- 


IS THIS WHAT GOD MEANT? 313 

posed it was only a few minutes. Suppose he hadn’t 
come! 

Shivering, she huddled into her corner, shuddering 
away from him when his hand went out to comfort 
her. She didn’t want tenderness that night, his poor 
Isabel! 

The hansom drew up with a jerk before a discon¬ 
certing glare of lights. 

Rummy looking pair to face that brilliantly lit 
lobby, he in his shirt sleeves, Isabel wrapped in his 
coat! He told the cabby to wait until he had se¬ 
cured rooms. He bent over Isabel. 

“May I have my coat, darling? I’ll be back in a 
minute.” 

He went to the desk, and registered, giving the first 
names that came into his head. Two rooms, he 
wanted. He explained that his was a predicament. 
His—wife was ill, just out of the hospital. They 
had neglected, the hospital people, to put in enough 
rugs. “Careless, but you know how it is, late at 
night!” He carried off the astonishingly facile lie 
with a shrug. A wonderful liar he was getting to be! 

The clerk assured him politely that he knew just 
how it was. He rang for two boys to help the lady. 
Blankets, he told them, were needed. 

While they were gathering the blankets, Graeme 
went back to Isabel. “You must let them carry you 
in,” he told her. “I ordered blankets. They think 
you are ill.” 

He had expected opposition from her, but there 
was none. She did not mind seeming ill. 

The two boys arrived, bearing blankets. 


3 I 4 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


“You’ll find me very heavy,” sorrowed the sweet 
voice of Isabel. 

“ ’Eavy has ha feather!” gruffed the smaller of the 
lads. 

Graeme followed them, oppressed by the strange¬ 
ness of it. He ought, he told himself, to be feeling 
elated. He was glad to have her at last with him, 
able to protect her, but something, he felt, was wrong. 
Her manner told him that something was wrong, and 
her face, in the lobby, appalled him. 

There followed a bustling half hour when he was 
shoved to one side, feeling useless and awkwardly 
apprehensive. Two women hovered about the bed, 
administering hot broth, and hot water bottles and 
warmed blankets. They called it a nervous chill that 
she was having, those women who did not know that 
she had been standing, half clothed, in the bleak Lon¬ 
don wind. A nervous chill! If it weren’t pneumonia, 
he would feel lucky! 

Isabel had secured their confidence, as soon as they 
saw her, in some mysterious way. Graeme watched 
them, wondering at their friendliness; he could 
understand their solicitude, but not that degree of 
sympathy. 

When the shuddering began to abate, they wanted 
to be sure that she did not want a doctor? She was 
not in pain? There was a doctor in the house; he 
could be there at once, if she needed him. 

She did not need, he heard her say, a doctor. All 
she needed now, after those nice warm things, was 
sleep. They had been so very helpful, so very kind! 

Uneasy still, they left her, looking back with mis- 


IS THIS WHAT GOD MEANT? 315 

givings at the stupid lout of a man who had not been 
the slightest bit of use, and even now should be 
sending, in their opinion, for the doctor I 

He bent over her bed. 

“Can you sleep, now, Isabel?” 

“Is the door locked?” she asked him. She could 
not sleep, unless she were locked in. And where was 
he going? 

His room adjoined hers; should she whisper, he 
would hear her. But he wasn’t going anywhere yet. 
He was going to sit by the bed, and hold her hand 
until she slept. 

“Wade, I must tell you—” 

“Tomorrow, Isabel!” 

“Wade, I told him that it was—your child.” 
Child? His child? A child? 

The meaning of it came to him slowly, unrolling, 
bit by bit. His anger, Isabel’s desperate resolve, and 
turning her out into the street. The gaping maids! 
That’s what it all meant! 

She had told Blood that it was his, Graeme’s child. 
And so he had packed.her off, let her go, not caring 
how she went, or where, simply packing her off. 
Told him it was his child. 

“At Brighton, I tried to anger him enough to let 
me stay. I told him I cared. He doesn’t yet know 
your real name. He has tried to make me let it out. 
I told him I couldn’t go back with him, that I didn’t 
love him. I thought at first, he would let me stay, 
give me up. He was terribly angry, until he talked 
with the landlady, found out that you had not stayed 
there; he would not listen to me—” 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


316 

Told him that it was his child! 

“He said everybody has fancies, and gets over them. 
He said he’d been crazy about another woman, six 
months before, and got over it. He was going to 
make me care for him, it made him crazy, after we 
got home, and I couldn’t help showing how I hated 
him. I used to think I would kill myself— If I 
hadn’t been afraid of making a botch of it, and you, 
too, I knew you would be sorry— Tonight I lied to 
him; I had to. I didn’t care if he hit me, I prayed 
that he would let me go, but I didn't dream he would 
throw me out, not give me a chance to get my things— 
I was so afraid he might change his mind, remember¬ 
ing how glad I’d be to get away—it was so terrifying 
out there, Wade. But you came, you came!” 

His child. Said it was his child. He ought to be 
saying something to comfort her, but he didn’t know 
what to say. There was not anything to say to com¬ 
fort her. There was no comfort. His head was 
pressed between his hands, trying to think of words 
to help Isabel, and dumb before her. 

“You feel that way, too!” 

How could they feel any other way, life smiting 
them like that? Giving her to him too late to be pro¬ 
tected. 

“You’ll try not to hate me, Wade?” 

Hate her, hate Isabel? She ought to be hating 
him, for not hiding her from that brute. She ought 
to be hating him for leaving her, in Brighton! 

But she had placed her finger, unerringly, on his mis¬ 
ery. She wasn’t his Isabel, now. She could no 
longer be his, even in thought. She belonged to that 


IS THIS WHAT GOD MEANT? 317 

man back there, because of his child. It was no 
longer right to call her his Isabel. 

God, if he could only go back to that day at Hamp¬ 
ton, at Brighton, if he could save her from this! He 
could have borrowed, he could have stolen, to have 
saved her from this. He had never thought of this 
—queer, she didn't hate him, for letting her go back to 
her life, from Kew, for leaving her alone at Brighton, 
ass, idiot, fiend that he had been! 

Trying to play the game fair, when the game itself 
isn’t fair! 

The poor, sorrowing Isabel! 

“I wish I could see your face, Wade!” 

“Shall I turn up the light?” 

“Yes. No! Oh, Wade! Is this what God 
meant ?” 

He fell on his knees by her bed, his face buried in 
the covers until her sad little fingers found it, and tried 
to give it comfort. 

Tomorrow, he told himself, he would know what to 
do, or to say, but then numb from horror and self- 
reproach! The mockery of it! So abashed before 
her because he had striven to do right, so stricken with 
regret! And, together, at last, those two, the barrier 
between them as wide as death! 

Trying to think of something to say to her, some 
hope. But just clinging to her sad little hands, saying 
nothing, thinking nothing, just holding her hands. 

And the dawn crept in, and found them. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


THE UPROOTING 

I T was a part of the dream that he told himself 
would break, going to the shops with Isabel’s list, 
and buying things he had never bought in his life 
before, a woman’s shoes, and gloves, and most im¬ 
portant of all, she had told him, a thick veil. Buying 
a hat for her was the hardest task, a hat that could be 
worn on the steamer, yet would look all right on the 
street. The girls behind the counter smiled variously 
at him, some impatient with his stupidities, and others 
finding it oddly attractive. But whether they liked it, 
or not, they all smiled. He could see them, looking 
at one another, getting ready to talk about him when 
he left, and a few of them not waiting! 

Later, he went out with Isabel, an Isabel disfigured 
in a loose thick coat, and a tightly secured veil. A 
part of the dream was this different seeming Isabel. 

The rest of the shopping she attended to, while he 
waited by the door for her. And together they 
bought a modest sized suitcase in which to carry the 
worldly possessions of the fleeing Isabel. 

They slipped like fugitives into a small restaurant, 
Graeme trying to keep up the pretence of gaiety, that 
it was a lark, and a part of their plan, running away 
like this. Over the table, they discussed the program, 
Liverpool, the steamer, New York; and afterwards to 

318 



THE UPROOTING 


3i9 


the steamship offices where he went over the bookings, 
leaving Isabel in the hansom, her veil wrapped closely 
about her face. 

While she slept that morning, after the sun had 
risen, he had made their plans. Isabel had fallen 
asleep, her hand in his, long after he had given up 
hoping she would sleep. It was not to be Paris, he 
had decided. Not for a long time now would Isabel 
be able to “get started,” as she called it. For a long 
time yet, he would have to look after her, gladly, 
sorrowfully look after her. He should be with or 
near her, seeing that she did not pinch pennies, or do 
without the food and comforts she needed. It meant 
his leaving England, digging up his roots, and begin¬ 
ning again somewhere else, not Paris. 

After a long vigil, he decided that it would be New 
York. English speaking fugitives would have a 
better chance of getting started—Isabel’s phrase ! It 
was to be New York. 

He told her when she woke, smiling for one terrible 
half minute to find him sitting on her bed, and holding 
her hand. Until 'she remembered, and after that 
only pretences of smiles that were sadder than tears. 

It meant that he should have more money than he 
had. He had enough to send her, if she would 
be willing to go alone? And Isabel was found 
eager to go alone. She wanted to leave London at 
once. 

He had not been willing to leave her long at the 
hotel alone, so he had not secured her berth during 
his early shopping expedition. Things happened to 
Isabel when he left her. It was she who suggested go- 


320 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


ing up to Liverpool that day, no matter when her boat 
sailed. She would feel happier once out of London. 

Three days in Liverpool she would have to wait, 
he told her when he rejoined her in the hansom, and 
a train was going in an hour. Did she still want to go 
that day? 

Not once, he marvelled, had she complained. She 
was astonishingly courageous. Not once did she say 
that New York was far, or that he must write often, 
or that he must hasten. Instead, begging him not to 
keep her on his mind; she was really very independent, 
and being in a strange city, Liverpool, New York, had 
no terrors for her. She kept telling him how good 
he was to her,—how she was determined not to spoil 
his life. 

He had written a note that morning, as soon as he 
had left Isabel’s bedside, despatching it to Fackenthal 
by messenger. He could not be at the office that day. 
He had to go to Liverpool, he was beginning. He 
rewrote the note, and said that he was leaving town 
for the day. Would Mr. Fackenthal lend him forty 
pounds? 

The messenger returning brought him fifty pounds, 
asking him if that were enough. 

It was more than enough to cover Isabel’s modest 
necessities, to pay for her berth, and to cover her ex¬ 
penses in Liverpool. It was astonishing how she 
stretched out a few pounds! Terribly touching, her 
unselfishness, trying to do without things, resisting his 
efforts to make her comfortable, until she saw it was 
making him unhappy. It was he who had to suggest 
the things she needed. So glad to leave London, he 



THE UPROOTING 


3 21 

believed she would have started with a comb and tooth¬ 
brush across the ocean! 

Their pretences of gaiety missed fire. Misery 
stalked at their heels. He couldn’t plan ahead to 
cheer her, because of this shadowing misery. Liver¬ 
pool, the ocean trip, New York, where he would 
follow her as soon as he could, but no farther. He 
gave up trying. He could not have so beguiled her, 
anyway, he told himself, so clear sighted was her love 
for him. 

On the way to Liverpool, she huddled in a corner of 
the coach, pretending to read; he sat opposite her, his 
eyes on a newspaper, but he knew that their thoughts 
were beating together against this new wall of misery. 
He discovered that it was possible for him to plan the 
immediate programs: plans for Isabel, and memoranda 
for her to take with her, plans for himself, when he 
returned to London, giving up the house at Bird Place, 
and writing, good stuff, or bad stuff, but every night 
writing. 

He must tell her what to do when she reached 
New York; how to find a decent place to stay; securing 
a room at the hospital and about being careful to get 
the right kind of doctor. He must caution her about 
that. He would write to Street and get the names of 
some doctors. He would tell her that. And he must 
remind her to cable him the day she landed. She 
would never do any of those money absorbing things 
unless he asked her to. He must remind her that the 
only way he could turn out decent stuff was by her 
assuring him, weekly reassuring him, that she was 
taking care of herself, and not stinting. Not stinting 


3 22 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


about food. He had heard that food was expensive 
in New York. That must not frighten her into par¬ 
simony. Much would depend upon her keeping well! 

A group of noisy tourists had crowded into their 
coach just before starting, when he had begun to be¬ 
lieve that they were going to have it to themselves. 
Conversation was impossible, and they were going to 
have no time in Liverpool. He decided to write down 
these items as they occurred to him. A list for Isabel, 
a nice, little homely list for Isabel, he told her. With 
a message tucked in between the items, of self¬ 
mockery, or reminder, to bring a smile to her lips after 
he had left her. 

She leaned over once to ask him if no other steamer 
w r ere leaving sooner? 

Everything was filled up, he told her, except one of 
the cheaper sort, the kind that carries no steerage, but 
everything second class. 

“When does it sail?” she demanded. And when he 
said “Tomorrow,” she urged to go then. She didn’t 
mind a few less comforts, she wanted to get started. 
He could not debate it while all those tourists were 
about, gay, curious girls who didn’t know what up¬ 
rooting means, what life means to people w T ho try to 
do the thing that seems right. He promised her he 
would inquire about berths on the steamer sailing the 
next day when they reached Liverpool. 

Then, at last, Liverpool! 

Driving with Isabel to the hotel, telling her as much 
as he could remember of the injunctions he had jotted 
down on her list, and putting the list in the new bag. 
Telling her other things as they ran into his head, and 


THE UPROOTING 


323 


asking her over and over again to be careful, to tele¬ 
graph him the last thing before leaving Liverpool, and 
to cable the hour she reached New York. She would 
write to him every week? 

'Then leaving her to get a berth on the steamer sail¬ 
ing the next day, going aboard, seeing a few of the 
passengers, and going back to the hotel and being 
advised by the clerks to have the lady take the later 
steamer. Circus riders, he told Isabel, and a cheap 
circuit gang were already making the ship into a vaude¬ 
ville. 

Persuading her to wait for the next boat, and telling 
her at last good-bye. Counselling her to stay in her 
room as much as she could, trying to be content with 
the air that came in her hotel windows—plenty of 
good sea air she would soon be getting. Looking 
deep into those shamed, tender eyes of his loved one, 
and praying her for his sake to take care of herself. 
Asking her over and over again if she could ever for¬ 
give him for running away at Brighton. He could 
never forgive himself! 

Asking her if she would always remember that he 
loved her? That he would follow her, in thought 
across the ocean, and as soon as he could get started, 
the other way! That she would remember she would 
be with him, that she would speak to him in her own, 
dear, wonderful way. And kissing her on her sad 
forehead, and on the sad shamed eyes, and asking her 
again to take care of herself for his sake. 

And then tearing himself away, and going back to 
London. Not going to London, but being carried 
along. Finding a grim comfort in being alone, in re- 



324 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


laxing to misery. Like trying to plan for the funeral 
of one’s loved one, the lists and the programs and the 
talk that day. 

Isabel’s child. Blood’s. 

Plan for their future? 

Life, what a hideous thing the four of them had 
made of it! That custom had made of it. 

Alma’s child. And now Blood’s. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


A FAREWELL 

H E was standing in Fackenthal’s private office, 
by his desk, waiting for his chief to finish 
signing his name to the sheaf of papers in 
front of him. The other clerks had gone for the day. 
This was an appointment, requested by Graeme, by a 
note, a memorandum laid on FackenthaTs desk the 
day before, and agreed to by a memorandum he had 
found on his desk that morning. Until this last 
minute, he had postponed telling Fackenthal that he 
was leaving Fackenthal, Knight and Company, leaving 
England and why; telling him about Isabel. 

Fackenthal had glanced up at him when he entered 
with a brief, friendly greeting: “Any hurry, Wade? 
Can you wait?” And Graeme had said that there 
was no hurry. 

In a few minutes, Fackenthal pivoted back in his 
swivel chair. “Now, I’m free. Everything going all 
right?” 

He took a seat by the desk. “I hope you’ll think 
so, sir.” He could not tell, from his employer’s ex¬ 
pression, as he got into his story, what he was making 
of it. It made the thing harder to tell. 

“She is in New York, now?” he was asked. 

“She’s been there for several months. It’s almost 

her time. I couldn’t leave sooner. I should have 

325 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


326 

been there, but she didn’t want me to be—and I had 
to put by all I could. It may not be easy getting 
started.” 

“Why didn’t you ask me to help you out, Wade? ’ 

He knew what Fackenthal was thinking. Wouldn’t 
he have been willing to trust an old and tried friend 
with his confidence if he were fully satisfied with the 
situation? He was thinking it was the same sort of 
mess he’d got into before—the same kind of woman. 
If he could have seen Isabel! 

Perhaps he would not have found it so galling, so 
impossible to borrow from Mr. Fackenthal if it had 
not been for the history of Wade House. He hadn’t 
zvanted to own Wade House, else why should he have 
kept it rented all these years? His own failures, too, 
had made him sensitive, bad enough to get into a mess 
like that at the Cape without howling to his friends to 
come and dig him out. 

“I wish you could have seen Isabel,” he said 
stupidly, knowing that it was no answer to Facken- 
thal’s question. Somehow, the older man seemed to 
think it was. 

“How soon are you going?” 

He hated to have to tell him that he was going the 
next day. There had been so many dashed plans, false 
alarms; so many postponements. Until yesterday, 
when the last check he’d been waiting a long time for 
came in, he had not been sure— 

“I’m all ready. My passage is booked,”—no need 
telling him how many steamers had gone without a 
certain passenger—“my boxes packed. My ship— 
sails—tomorrow, sir.” He caught the hurt look that 




A FAREWELL 


327 


swept over the face of his friend. “I can’t thank you 
the way I want for the patience and faith you’ve given 
me all these dead dumb years, Mr. Fackenthal.” 

“Then you’re going on, Wade?” 

He let his bulldog look answer his employer. 

“Then it must be all right—” 

“It’s all right, sir. There wasn’t any other way. 
Life settles things for one, sometime.” 

“It’s a good thing to be sure that it is life—not one’s 
own temperament. You think you must go to a new 
country, in order to help the woman you love. Can’t 
you help her without sacrificing your career? You 
are just getting started, you’re late getting started. 
Why not run over and see her, see that she is com¬ 
fortable, safely settled, and come back? Getting 
married isn’t all there is to life, Wade. I’ve often 
wished I could have said this to you at the Cape. The 
individual life comes first— You wanted to help that 
other woman, and flung your life away. It doesn’t 
help any one, giving them a sacrificed life—it’s per¬ 
verse of us, but we don’t enjoy the people who sacri¬ 
fice themselves for us.” 

He knew that Fackenthal would think it was like 
that other time, at the Cape. That was what made 
it so hard, telling him. If he’d ever seen Isabel, he’d 
know how different were the two cases. 

“I can’t make you believe that it’s different, Mr. 
Fackenthal. I love Isabel. I am proud to love her. 
That makes the difference—” Could he think he had 
ever loved Alma? 

“I was proud to love your mother, Wade. That’s 
the reason I don’t want to see her son make a second 



THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


328 

blunder. The first mistake crushed her, Wade. I 
saw it crush her.” 

His mother. And Fackenthal. Dub that he was 
not to have guessed it before. That was why he had 
never married, his mother was the woman he had told 
him of. That was why he was so good to him. 
Loved his mother, had he, the fine, knightly gentle¬ 
man ? 

“You seem like my son, Wade. You ought to have 
been my son. I think she knew, before she died, that 
she had made a mistake— She never acknowledged it, 
she thought it was right to keep on— I’ve been 
proud of you. I want to keep on being proud of you. 
Eve been afraid that you felt it an ideal to make some 
woman, some one little family happy. I want you to 
have a bigger ideal than that—that’s part of it—only 
part of it. I want you to keep on fighting, being a 
bulldog—letting nothing come in between you and 
your own—stature. I guess that says it. We don’t 
serve any one by letting our stature get stunted. Now, 
I have preached to you. What can I do to help?” 

“I don’t think there's anything else. I’ve been to 
the firm’s lawyers. If Blood ever sues for a divorce, 
there’ll be some use my getting one— Alma doesn’t 
want it—she doesn’t want her father to know, or her 
friends at the Cape. It’s religion with her. Maybe, 
she doesn’t want to marry him now—I fancy he still 
threatens to tell her people—but he can’t get much out 
of her earnings.” 

“Your own freedom gave hers to her, you see, 
Wade,” observed Fackenthal. 

He looked soberly at his employer. It hadn’t struck 



A FAREWELL 


329 


him quite that way before. Freed her, setting himself 
free. Going to think about that later, on the steamer, 
on the way to New York. 

He wasn’t going to tell this good friend of his how 
he was going to New York; steerage. It would hurt 
him to know how he’d been grinding, saving ifor 
Isabel, and giving a pitiful contribution to Alma 
when he found her stranded, moving to Shoreditch. 

“Why doesn’t Isabel sue her husband for a divorce, 
if he’s that sort, if she knows he’s that sort?’’ frowned 
Fackenthal. 

“She can’t, after what she told him; maybe I didn’t 
tell you what she told him.” 

“It’s his child,” stated Fackenthal. 

His eyes met the grey, kind eyes steadily. “It’s his 
child.” 

“I would like you to let me do something, Wade—” 

“There is something you can do, sir. If Blood 
should begin to be ugly, sue, start a scandal, it would 
be hard working against it, in a new country. I 
thought I’d start under another name— If you know 
people over there, letters would help me—” 

“Surely letters— But your name—it takes a life¬ 
time to make one name mean something—you’re just 
getting started with Wade Graeme.” 

He looked helplessly at his friend. “I know. But 
what else can I do, at first?” 

“Will you do me a favour, Wade? Just one. 
Use my name. As though you were my son. Don’t 
let’s talk about it. That’s settled. I want to tell you 
about Wade House.” 

Wade House, he explained, he had always planned 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


330 

leaving to Wade, in his will. It was arranged that 
way. But while Wade was talking, it came to him 
that he wanted to give it to him, now. A present to 
Isabel—from Mary Graeme. 

The house, he went on to say, was leased now. But 
the rent would mean something to Wade, while he 
was getting started. And when they were started 
right, which meant being able to come back to England, 
didn’t it, there would be Wade House waiting to help 
him take up the proud old traditions and carry them 
on. 

Rare, splendid Fackenthal! And subtle. Binds 
him with his name and his present. Knowing he 
would not bring a woman who was not the right sort 
into his mother’s home, into the Wade traditions; 
knowing his name, too, was a challenge. Good old 
careful Fackenthal! 

For Mary Graeme’s sake he was doing it! Wonder¬ 
ful to have lived a life that goes on living after you 
yourself are gone. Like a perfume, a life like that, 
the flower gone, but the perfume filling the room. 
The fragrance taken up by the walls and the hangings, 
by the atmosphere. Going on, a life like that. A 
spirit like Mary Graeme’s does not die. 

Isabel was like that. He wanted to tell Mr. Facken¬ 
thal that Isabel was like that. He would write to him, 
write him that later; that he would be proud, Facken¬ 
thal would, to see Isabel at Wade House, keeping up 
the Wade traditions, Mary Graeme’s life. 

“I wish I knew the writing people over there. But 
Jepson does. Have you seen Jepson?” 

“Not yet. I wanted to tell you first, Mr. Facken- 


A FAREWELL 


33 1 


thal. And it’s going to be a little awkward, explain¬ 
ing about my name, it’s going to be a little awkward 
explaining it to Mr. Street—he will have forgotten 
me,—telling him who I am, and then who I’m not! 
I wonder if you would write to him, explaining?” 

“Can’t I help you out, how much money do you 
need?” 

As though he were his father, asking him how much 
money he needed! 

“I’ve got enough.” Since last night, at five o’clock, 
he had enough to make the venture! Enough to see 
Isabel through. And now, with the rent from Wade 
House, he could look after her decently, even if it 
were tedious getting started. 

“You could always cable me. You will, Wade? 
When do I see you again? I’ve an engagement to¬ 
night, I must be starting.” 

“Tomorrow’s Saturday, that’s so; I was going out 
of town. But I’ll have those letters for you. Go on 
fighting. I know you will go on fighting.” 

“Thank you. Good-bye, Mr. Fackenthal.” 

He helped his friend into his overcoat. There were 
no words after that. Two Britishers shaking hands, 
and smiling; and that chapter was closed, perhaps? 

That evening he went to see Jepson. Though the 
editor promised him all the letters he wanted, himself 
volunteering to write to Street, recalling Graeme to 
him, and asking him to take a personal interest in him, 
still he had carried away a distinctly uncomfortable 
feeling. Jepson had jumped to an immediate deduc¬ 
tion when he told him he was going to use Fackenthal’s 
name over there. He had watched the discovery 


33 2 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


come to him; he understood the broader kindliness 
which had offered to make his path smooth. Jepson 
thought he was Fackenthal’s son. 

He wanted to set Jepson straight, but under the cir¬ 
cumstances, remembering the story Fackenthal had 
told him, he didn’t know how. He couldn’t, could he, 
without being offensive? Knowing what Jepson was 
thinking, he couldn’t make the eyes steady which had 
looked back at him. He felt—like Pussy Glasscock! 

And he hadn’t thought of Pussy Glasscock in twenty 
years! 

Pussy had had more money to spend on himself and 
his friends than any other boy at Rugby, and he never 
could look another fellow square in the eyes. Every 
one knew who his father was, and why it wasn’t 
decent or kind to speak of mothers before Pussy 
Glasscock. Life wasn’t fair to him, it had served him 
a rotten deal. His fate had given him unstinted 
money to spend, and the taste to spend it; gave him 
chances which soured as quickly as milk in hot weather. 
Lots of good a splendid name does one, if one has to 
hide forever behind Glasscock! He had acquired 
that shifting glance before he had reached Rugby; the 
look of one who has been betrayed— 

He didn’t want to think of Isabel just then. He 
didn’t want her face to follow Pussy Glasscock’s. He 
knew quite well why her face pressed in just then. 
Always back of the sweet thought of her, of Isabel 
and her books and her roses, were the children that 
bore a look of her. Children, and a garden, and 
Isabel; children who would have the shifting glance 
of a Pussy Glasscock! 


A FAREWELL 


333 


Like the trail of a snail, a lie. One can trace the 
glaze over innocent garden beds. The glaze of Jep- 
son’s suspicion crawling over his mother’s life. Re¬ 
senting it! With all his soul resenting it! And 
thinking helplessly of Isabel, and of a certain home 
in the north of England. 

He had stumbled out, blundering his thanks, saying 
his good-bye shiftily; had made his way through the 
fog-obscured streets; had reached his room in a daze. 
He was too tired, he told himself, to think anything 
out. He had been working too hard the past months. 

The next day, he found on his desk a message which 
had been telephoned in from Fackenthal. The letters 
would be on his desk at four o’clock. 

As he sat at his desk, that last morning waiting for 
the London clocks to end this chapter, to tell him that 
it was noon, and that he was dropped now from the 
pendulum, the feeling of nausea seized him. He 

knew by this time what that sensation threatened. It 
always came when he’d been over-doing. Working all 
day and writing all night takes it out of one soon. 
The ocean trip, he told himself, would buck him up. 
Ten days on the ocean, and he would be fit to 

see Isabel. 

The London clocks were releasing the London army 
of clerks. He hadn’t told the office he would not be 
in his place on Monday. They would ask why. So 
they filed past him, merely nodding, or smiling. One 

of them, Blackie, turned at the door, and said: 

“Good hunting.” 

“Good-bye,” he answered. 

He spent an hour clearing out his desk. He told 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


334 

Mumford, the janitor, that he was going on a trip, for 
Mumford would be gone for the day when he got back 
from lunch. He wished he could give Mumford some¬ 
thing—and then he remembered the rent of Wade 
House, and went back, and shook hands with him. 
He felt richer for the eight shillings left behind. 

He had planned to take an early train to Liverpool 
but Fackenthal’s message had changed that. He had 
a few hours to kill, after he had his lunch, and had 
gathered his handbag from his room which was all 
ready for the new tenant. Unstrapped boxes were 
waiting for him to clear out— 

He spent the extra hours on the top of ’busses, say¬ 
ing good-bye to London, stately, elegant, indifferent 
London, who didn’t care that he was going, as long as 
he’d paid his bills. 

Cold, often, brutal sometimes, but if one gets on the 
right side of London, a good old pal. London to 
him was masculine. Now, Paris, with her jewelled 
lights and caprices, and her pretty ways, was a woman, 
nothing masculine about Paris. He wondered what 
New York would be like. 

He said good-bye rather solemnly to the Strand, 
and to the British Museum as he passed, wondering 
how long it would be before he passed there again, 
and how it would be with him. A long time it would 
be before he looked up at that stately pile. But not 
so hopeless the up-rooting, since Fackenthal had told 
him about Wade House, had suggested the carrying 
on— 


He was looking through his desk for the letters 


A FAREWELL 


335 

Fackenthal had promised him, when the door of the 
office opened on Fackenthal himself. 

“I’ve just come from Knight’s. He’s been ill; he 
sent for me.” 

“I hope it’s not serious.” 

“He always thinks it’s serious, so it’s the same thing 
isn’t it?” Fackenthal grinned. “What train are you 
taking?” 

“Oh, any train will do,” Graeme answered. 

“I’ve a notion to take the machine, and run out into 
the country. That brought me back. Will you take 
a night train?” 

He could take a night train! 

“We’ll come back to the club for dinner, or find it 
on the road. How soon could you be ready?” 

Graeme thought he could be ready almost anytime. 
It wasn’t necessary to say how long he had been 
ready! 

A half hour later he was sitting by the side of 
Fackenthal, being carried past the places to which an 
hour or so before he had been bidding a dramatic fare¬ 
well. How long would it be, he had asked the solemn 
face of the British Museum, before he was looking at 
her again? She must have had her tongue in her 
cheek. 

There was no sun; the fog drifting down upon them 
gave the feeling of winter. Graeme put on his coat, 
as Fackenthal drew shut one of the windows. 

Suddenly, Fackenthal called: “Holden! Drive 
back a bit, slowly, I want to see if that gate is locked. 
There’s a place I’d like to show you, Wade, a garden 
I’ve always fancied. Some one’s living in it, now, but 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


336 

I think it could be bought. The next gate, Holden.” 

“It’s open, shall we drive through?” asked the man. 

“Yes, slowly. It’s a poet’s garden, Wade. Peace¬ 
ful, and sweet. I’ve been thinking that this is where 
I’d like to spend my last chapter, dreaming, remember¬ 
ing—” 

“A long time off, sir,” returned Graeme, affection¬ 
ately. Then: “I’ve often thought that it would be 
Wade House.” 

Fackenthal dismissed that suggestion. Wade 
House was for the son of Mary Graeme. 

Fackenthal recalled to Holden a little inn in a sub¬ 
urban town not far off, he thought. Where there was 
a rose-arbour, and an old-fashioned garden, with a big 
fireplace in the ancient house quite large enough for a 
family of old-fashioned size to enjoy together. The 
garden, he told Wade, reminded him of Italy, but the 
house was England, England of yesterday, of chaises 
and relays and merry-drinking travellers. The old 
walls, he thought, could tell many a story. It was 
too late, probably, for the roses, but they could dine in 
the garden, and if Holden hurried, could watch the 
sun go down between the ancient trees. 

Evening ran towards them suddenly. The sun was 
setting when they reached a rambling settlement of 
small houses and modest garden plots. The up-curl¬ 
ing smoke told of meals being prepared; of home¬ 
comings. The absence of railroad tracks and station 
suggested completeness and isolation, self-satisfaction. 
It recalled Annersley to Graeme, Isabel’s Annersley, 
and prompted him to ask Mr. Fackenthal a favour, 
about Wade House. 


A FAREWELL 


337 


He began to tell him of Annersley, of some of the 
things Isabel had told him, of her girlhood, her fright, 
her loneliness. He was interrupted by their arrival 
at the inn. 

The middle-aged innkeeper wondered if the gentle¬ 
men would not find it too cold, eating in the garden 
after the sun had gone down? 

Fackenthal insisted that Wade should eat his dinner 
under the old appletree. He wanted him to carry 
with him to the new world that little memory of old 
England. They had their heavy coats, if the wind 
should come up. They stretched themselves in the 
rustic armchairs. 

“She must be a sweet woman,” Fackenthal picked 
up the thread where it had been dropped. 

“She is like my mother, not in looks, but her way, 
with life, with people,” responded Wade. “I wonder 
if I might ask you, sir—one must always think of the 
chances of being snuffed out,—if I should be run over 
by an automobile, or should go down with my ship,— 
Wade House, if you have made it mine, would go to 
Alma. I don’t like to think of that, that brute mak¬ 
ing her sell it, to any one, in a hurry. And I could not 
will it to Isabel. Alma would make trouble about 
that.” 

Of course, there would be trouble with Alma, Fack¬ 
enthal gravely agreed. He had not thought about 
that. He remembered one little transaction, when 
she had sold him the furnishings,—he wondered if 
Wade knew about that. 

He had not known. 

An overwhelming realization of Mr, Fackenthal’s 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


338 

generosity mingled with a swift impression of Wade 
House, as it was, as he had not known it was still— 
with its oak panelled hall, its living-room of gracious 
dimensions and dignified old furniture that had be¬ 
longed to many a generation of Wades, old pieces of 
walnut and mahogany. He could see a woman’s form 
coming through the French windows from the lawn, 
followed by his dogs—not his mother, for the first 
time not seeing his mother there, but Isabel! 

He put his hand quietly on that of his friend. 

Later, he said: “But you could leave it to her, Mr. 
Fackenthal! To Isabel. Alma would have no 
grounds to combat that. Isabel is using her mother’s 
name, Sorbier. Did I tell you that before?” 

Fackenthal took his notebook. 

“I won’t give time any chance to play that kind of 
a trick on us my boy. I will attend to that tomorrow!” 

He spoke of it again, when Wade was boarding his 
train at Euston. 

Newsies were making an unholy racket when the 
two men reached again the city streets. Somebody 
was murdered. Huxtry! Huxtry! Somebody was 
killed! 

Fackenthal had Holden stop and buy a paper. 
“Archduke Ferdinand,” said Fackenthal, reading the 
Globe. “Murdered at Saravejo.” 

“Archdukes just folks, these days,” commented 
Graeme. “It doesn’t mean more than a holiday to 
his nation, and a ripping harvest for the newsies.” 

Fackenthal was deeply absorbed in the report. 

“Europe’s like a laid fire,” he said, folding the sheet. 
“A spark would set her off.” 


A FAREWELL 


339 


Newsies were racketing at the station. Over the 
death of a mere archduke! As if it mattered to self- 
centred London! 

Euston Station recalled Liverpool, and Isabel. Go¬ 
ing to Liverpool again, without Isabel. 

The whistles blew, bells were ringing. Fackenthal, 
who had bought a ticket for the next station in order 
to go through the gate with him, stepped back from 
the train. Graeme hung out of the window, waving 
to the erect, silver-topped man who was standing 
watching him, smiling, smiling— 

“Huxtry! Huxtry!” shrilled the voices of Eng¬ 
land’s boys. 

Saying good-bye to England! 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


TRAVELLERS OF HOPE 

H AD he gone on board his ship earlier, he 
would have changed his ticket, or waited for 
the next boat. No one had ever told him 
that a steerage was—a pen, a pen was what it was! 
One bewildered survey of the long rows of bunks 
which were supported by the pipes or tubes of iron 
that grid-ironed the ward, had sent him scurrying to 
find an official who could locate his boxes, and let him 
off the ship, if they couldn’t fix him up on the next 
deck. By the time he could find any one with leisure 
to listen to a steerage complaint, the ship was swinging 
out of the harbour. Several hours later, he was in¬ 
formed that there was not an empty berth on the ves¬ 
sel. He resigned himself to ten days of horror. 

The horror unfolded rapidly; the first day at sea 
was a blur of wretchedness. The first night he spent 
in his hard bunk. The night was a daze of nausea, of 
frightful stenches, of wailing infants and cursing men. 

At dawn, he dragged himself into the room labelled: 
“Men’s Washing-room,” and found it pre-empted by 
mothers and babies. His toilet that day went no far¬ 
ther than a toothbrushing. He fled from the cries and 
the stenches, and the clatter of foreign words. 

He told himself that he would not go back to that 

hole. On deck he found a pile of ropes on which he 

340 




TRAVELLERS OF HOPE 


34i 

flung himself, feeling green about the lips, and aban¬ 
doned himself to hours of conscious misery. 

The air, he told himself, at any rate was pure, 
though too cold for comfort. At least, he could 
breathe. There was no chance of sleeping, of course, 
for the women were flocking on deck, chattering like 
crows, the babies screaming. 

It surprised himself to find that he could deaden his 
ears to them, that he could achieve a partial uncon¬ 
sciousness. So exhausted from the misery of the night 
before, so wearied by the strain of the last weeks in 
London, that in spite of the cold wind, of the drifting 
fog which settled on his hair and his clothes like a 
bright frost, he found himself relaxing—dreamily 
aware that the women were sitting near his head, that 
the children were playing at his feet; as from a dis¬ 
tance, he heard them babbling in a strange gibberish. 

It was like falling towards a beautiful death. It 
was like falling into a pool of clean, clear water, this 
swift surrender to sleep and to the fresh bath of ocean 
air. 

He dreamed of the awful cave, with its metal posts 
supporting the rows of disgusting beds. He would 
wake, shivering, as he thought from the fetid air, to 
find himself chilled, his clothes damp, the clear, sharp 
breezes blowing over his head, the strange, guttural 
sounds clacking over his head. And would drop to 
sleep again. Once, waking, he found a strange, new 
and friendly sun drying his clothes, and slipped off to 
sleep once more. 

He slept through the second day at sea, with these 
snatches of consciousness, and on into the twilight. 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


342 

When he roused for the first time fully, the stars were 
coming out to prick a deep blue sky. Children were 
rolling about a disordered deck, and encroaching on 
his pile of ropes. A babel of tongues, French, Ger¬ 
man, Italian, Slavic, rumbled and shrilled near him. 
Infants were crying unnoticed. 

Managing to make a woman understand that he 
wanted her to save his ropes for him, he made a 
swift descent into the fetid cave. He came back, at 
once, feeling pallid, bearing some blankets and another 
coat. The price of the dive into the cabin was a 
shivering attack of nausea— He decided that he 
would have to lie awake all night, that he had for¬ 
feited the right to sleep after that orgy of uncon¬ 
sciousness, and the sun wakened him the next morning. 

A roll of newspapers was still serving him as a 
pillow; his hat was crushed over his eyes, every muscle 
ached. But his coat and blankets had kept him warm. 
He had not stirred during the night. 

He got to his feet, and stretched. It took courage 
to go in search of coffee. He was soon back on deck 
again. That afternoon, after his first meal, he began 
to take stock of his fellow passengers, to realize the 
vaulting sky and the limitless ocean. To discover 
pleasure in living was like discovering life, like being 
born consciously anew. 

If it weren’t for the necessity of entering the foul 
cave, he would be glad that his poverty had made him 
ship steerage. Unnecessary discomfort it had proved, 
on account of Fackenthal’s gift. The rent of Wade 
House, coming every six months, would make him in¬ 
dependent. He would never consent to do it again, 


TRAVELLERS OF HOPE 


343 


so this was his chance to enjoy it, the chance to see at 
first hand the people who are making America. 
These neighbours of his were the folk who were 
creating the problem of amalgamation. Before mine 
barons caught them, or pork barons caught them, or 
steel barons caught them, they were travellers of hope ! 

He debated, watching the faces of the Slavic and 
Celtic women, of the two views of the new world 
peopling. Was it the failures, the inefficients of 
Europe who were settling America? That was 
Fiske’s warning to the new world. But it wasn’t, he 
knew, the popular theory in the United States! 

From Street, he knew that Americans glorified in 
their belief that courage is the contribution of the im¬ 
migrant to the new world; that it is the heritage of the 
children of America; the bequest of red-blooded men 
who had been founding it anew each day since those 
of the colonies. It stirred his imagination, that belief. 
He preferred, for his part, not to have too bright a 
spotlight thrown on the histories of the first comers. 
He liked, moreover, to think of his fellow passengers 
as adventurers, modern Christophers, their courage 
none the less dauntless because their entire fortune 
was bound up in that blue or scarlet handkerchief! 
He chose to think that they had not left the contented, 
successful comrades at home; their associates who 
lacked the courage to come with them were the sug- 
merged tenth of the city masses, of Berlin, Vienna, 
Prague, Buda-Pesth. 

Does it require courage for the uprooting? Did 
he not know? He looked with respect at the rough 
men and women who refused to be submerged, to 


344 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


have their children exposed to the risk of the sub¬ 
merging. When he felt less dragged, he was going 
to mix with these people. He had learned to mix 
with people like this in London, in those backroom 
gatherings, in the basement meetings, or digging cel¬ 
lars that women might make themselves into objets 
d' art. 

To a Sicilian woman he offered his overcoat for a 
pillow and his pre-empted pile of ropes, adding his 
pile of newspapers for a pillow. For she looked ex¬ 
hausted. She established herself and her infant 
volubly, but her smile and her gestures alone were 
comprehensible. 

Graeme knew no Italian, save a few musical 
phrases, and a few words to be recognized as cousins 
to French, Latin. For a few minutes he gesticulated 
with the Sicilian, and turned for sociability to a group 
of Germans. He found them ready to meet him 
nearer than halfway. They plied him with all sorts 
of questions, where he came from, and where he was 
going? Why was he going there; had he ever been 
there before, and if he were going to return, by and 
by? Was he married, and where, then, was his 
wife? And where had he bought his clothes, his 
practical clothes, and his most practical shoes, and 
how much had they cost? And did he think that 
the Archduke’s death would bring trouble? 

Their uncurbed, naive curiosity amused him for 
awhile, for he had forgotten this characteristic of 
theirs. But he wearied, at length, of explaining 
himself. He had got nothing from them. They 


TRAVELLERS OF HOPE 


345 

shrugged and smiled, and said “Ach, Gott!” when he 
asked them why they were here. 

He discovered a Serb on his way to Pittsburg who 
could speak a picturesque English. Not an intellec¬ 
tual treasure, in himself, but he might unlock the doors 
to the treasure. He was willing to act as interpreter 
for the Slavs who were herded together. Graeme 
felt at length as though he were German, the kind 
of German who is away from home for the first 
time, and to whom all things are strange. He did 
not want to know the price of their strange, common 
clothes, but he yearned to know their personal story; 
why they were leaving safety, if it were safety, to dare 
the dangers of the unknown? Hope, how much they 
hoped! A line of Le Gallienne’s kept recurring to 
him: “She expected too much of life to be comfort¬ 
able to live with.” Did not all of these people ex¬ 
pect too much to be quite comfortable to live with? 
They were on their way, they believed, to the land of 
promise, and of fulfilment. Their visions held no 
fears of robber barons, or steel or pork barons, of 
lynchings, mobs, grafters, padrones. No country 
could stand the test of their belief, and their disil¬ 
lusionment. 

Hereafter, the word Pittsburg would return the 
picture of the Serb making of his middleman position 
a distinguished one. He would see the wind blowing 
the women’s shawls into balloons, twisting their hair 
into streamers. He would see the black-eyed Slovak 
with his family of ten, all black-eyed, and as vivid of 
face as himself, the father. He was on his way to 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


346 

wrest a living from a steel baron, who would not care 
whether he earned a living or not. He would be just 
a “hand,” to keep a furnace going until another trav¬ 
eller of hope took his place. 

The word Chicago would recall a group of hungry- 
eyed Columbuses, from Genoa, from Naples, on their 
way to the jungles. Milwaukee would remind him 
of the people who liked his practical clothes. Travel¬ 
lers of hope! 

After the first few minutes of consciousness, they 
forgot that the Slav was passing on their confidences to 
the silent Englishman. And their stories began to flow. 
Vital stuff, all of it. One word began to ring through 
his brain, it was like a refrain, the word freedom. 
That was the reason they were adventurers, religious 
freedom, political freedom, broader laws—education, 
children’s freedom. That was the foundation of the 
new world. 

Two women of the Slav group were approaching 
their hour. Their condition was a constant reminder 
of Isabel. When he thought of her that way, she 
was no longer his Isabel. She belonged to that child, 
to that other man’s child. The child was pushing 
him away from her. 

Not in affection, in admiration. It hadn’t changed 
his love for her, but he could no longer think of her 
in the old, sweet, wonderful way. He couldn’t sum¬ 
mon her to himself any more, telling him about her 
roses, about Annersley. He discovered that he was 
hoping the child would die. 

Try as he would, he could not plan their life, the 
three of them, Isabel, himself, and the child who 


TRAVELLERS OF HOPE 


347 


would be a continual reminder of the life they were 
trying to forget. Outlaws, they would be, Fiske’s 
outlaws, fleeing for a place to hide in! 

He kept thinking of Jepson’s face when the fancied 
discovery had been made; and then of Pussy Glass¬ 
cock. Of Jepson, of Pussy Glasscock, of Isabel, as the 
Serb kept up his interminable translating. If the 
story followed them or came out, if Blood’s belief 
followed them, that child would look like Pussy Glass¬ 
cock—would look as though it had been betrayed— 
would believe itself the child of Isabel and Wade 
Graeme. The way their own children would look. 
There would never be any children of Isabel and Wade 
Graeme. That he pledged, as though in court, in 
church, to his God. His God! 

He saw himself back in the Bond Street cellars. A 
rough Irishman said it, the words which had given 
him such a jolt, given him the feeling that it was time 
to wake up, and stop the business of sleeping and un¬ 
real dreams. “He was never going to drink again, 
as sure as God is Goodness.” 

Strange, what a chance phrase can do to one. It 
had rung in his brain for days. As sure as God is 
Goodness. 

Years of straining after faith, years of trying to 
force his spirit to his knees, and there the light had 
burst on him as it had come to Paul on his way to 
Damascus. God is Goodness. 

It is our man-made words that betray us! We 
make a word to describe a fact, and then it becomes 
a prison for our children. The dictionaries are full 
of those prisons. He had looked the word God up 


34 $ 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


in the dictionary at the office in Fetter Lane. “A 
supreme being, self-existent and eternal.” The man 
from Cork had said it better: God is Goodness. 

Trying to teach faith to the children, we give them 
facts, foundations of facts; we make stout walls of 
definitions; buttress the solemn building with stern 
timbers of law; add a few flying buttresses of symbols. 
We take the child to pray in this Gothic place. And 
then he goes on without us into more prosaic buildings, 
where he is told that his bricks were false; the foun¬ 
dation untrustworthy; told that they were not facts, 
but hope. 

Surely, the Mary mothers knew it right, and the 
pastor fathers, that God is Goodness, leading us on, 
and up, that it is the spirit, or mystery, of goodness, 
of progress, feeling its way steadily to the light. But 
they had given him a definition from a dictionary. 

As sure as God is Goodness. Strange place to find 
faith, in a Bond Street cellar! 

The Serb was still talking, translating more stories, 
of quests for freedom. This was a Slav woman, one 
he had been watching. She trailed a piteous child 
that reminded him of little Alma. It had the face of 
age, the mind of infancy. Ten years old, the Serb 
told him. 

With her were six other children. They were on 
their way to find the husband and father who had 
dropped out of sight in the new country. Until a year 
ago, he had written, and had sent money. Since 
then, there was only silence. She had put by, the 
Serb explained to Graeme, a little money, and had 
borrowed the rest from the village priest. Without 


TRAVELLERS OF HOPE 


349 

a word of the new language, she had started for 
America. 

That night, towards morning, Graeme was wakened 
from his deep sleep on his pile of ropes by some one 
tripping over his feet. He heard a smothered curse 
—two sailors were carrying a ghastly looking bun¬ 
dle, wrapped in blankets. Over the shipside, they 
dropped it. 

He did not get asleep again. On a ship, he 
thought, that is all it means, a soul’s passing. The 
next morning, no one knows anything about it. 

He found his blankets were soaking. A heavy fog 
had caught them, or was this a rain that was falling? 
He shuddered at the thought of his berth in the steer¬ 
age cabin. He was awake when the ship struck. 

They had been going slowly, signals sounding every 
few seconds, but at once, the engines were stopped; and 
slowly, the great ship was halted. Lights flashed out 
over the boat, men and women came running out of the 
cabins, chattering, crying. There was no one who 
seemed to know anything, what they had struck, or 
why they had stopped. For a half hour, they lay 
drifting, in mid-ocean. And then slowly, they began 
to move on again. 

The Serb told Graeme that one of the officers had 
informed him that the other ship had glanced across 
their prow. That no damage had been done. Within 
an hour after Graeme had been wakened by the sailor 
tripping over his feet, he was once more alone on deck, 
lying on his pile of ropes, with the sound of the en¬ 
gines in his ears. 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


THROUGH THE FOG 

M IDNIGHT and mid-ocean; a blur of dim 
light staining the fog where the moon is 
trying to push her way through. Darkness 
on deck, and the fog-signal’s, low booming, as the ship 
ploughs slowly her way through the black waters. 
Now that the danger’s over, nobody caring to share 
with him the wave-swept deck where death had stalked 
a few minutes ago. Gone, the frightened rabbits, to 
finish out their dreams of freedom, of plenty, of mates 
and young, leaving it to the captain to push them 
safely through the fog. 

The fog so thick that the other ship was on them 
before they saw it. Straining, he could now barely 
see the black water slapping against the side of the 
ship. If an iceberg were jutting up in their path, 
they wouldn’t see it until they struck— 

It made him think of London, this heavy, impene¬ 
trable fog, the fog of the London streets; head down, 
counting the number of steps to his door, for fear he 
might stumble into the wrong house—hold on, Wade 
Graeme! That’s the thought you promised yourself, 
back there, that you’d thrash out on the steamer, 
when you were face to face, alone with your¬ 
self. Alone with yourself this minute, midnight 

350 


THROUGH THE FOG 


35i 


and mid-ocean, alone on deck. Not since the 
nights of the Karroo alone like this with your own 
soul! 

Haven’t you the trick of stumbling into the wrong 
house? Pushing blindly into a new country, leaving 
the place of home and friends, and opportunity, why? 
Because mud will be flung at you, and you don’t like 
mud, or you don’t like it for the woman you’re going 
to take care of. Isn’t America the wrong house for 
you, Wade Graeme? Going proudly, courageously, 
or as an outlaw, to the new world, one of Fiske’s out¬ 
laws! Ever going to get into the right house, Wade 
Graeme ? 

Freedom, he would like to assert, was directing 
him? Doesn’t life, demands self-defence, owe at least 
that much to a man,—the woman he wants to be with, 
children that look like her, like himself— That isn’t 
all of life, though, the nest, and being glad and snug 
in it. There’s a man’s stature, as Fackenthal said. 
Which means sending one’s roots into the earth; 
growing tall and straight; if one is English, that means 
English soil, means carrying on. 

Not lying, like ostriches, Street’s ostriches—pre¬ 
tending not to hear, not to see— 

It was about here, he thought, where the great ship 
went down in the darkness, time back; close now to the 
place where panic turned men into white-livered rab¬ 
bits, men whose sense of values was untrained. All 
that they knew was the ego of the safe skin. They 
hadn’t been taught the relation of the I to every other 

I. 

“A chance,” thought those men in a hurry, “a chance 


352 THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 

for some one in those lifeboats. Why not my chance? 
Those other people don’t want to live as much as I 
do; they haven’t so much to live for; haven’t there¬ 
fore as much right to live.” 

If one can call it living, after. When men look 
askance at one because he took the chance of the life¬ 
boats, a white-livered rabbit; call that living? 

It’s no worse, what they did, than what men are 
doing every day in the Cities. Their chance to get all 
the wheat; their chance to get all the cotton. No 
worse, only more conspicuous. Those basement fel¬ 
lows know what they are talking about! They say 
every soul has a right to live, a right to air and water, 
and knowledge, and decent food, and clothes; to Love. 
An honest right. 

Then what’s the test, whether it’s freedom or out¬ 
lawry? 

If a man's solution can’t be applied by all men with¬ 
out carrying wholesale misery, then he is cornering 
happiness, isn’t he, as those other men corner wheat? 
Who said that? Anyway, it was the test. 

The fog at last lifting. 

At the expense then of the rest, looking at it that 
way. Not a nice thought to live with, to spend one’s 
life with. If one wants to be a hermit, in a mob or 
in a mountain, the rabbit creed is the one to take. 
What does one want, then, the most to have? Food? 
Money? Grab it. Life? A cushioned chance, or 
a desperate one in a lifeboat, corner it then, quick to 
the lifeboat with one’s precious white liver that it may 
go on living, no, livering’s the right verb for white 
livers! 


THROUGH THE FOG 


353 

Then what was he going to do? Where was he 
going? 

How did he know? How does a man know today 
what he will do tomorrow? The big thing is knowing 
about it, facing it, telling the truth about it to one’s 
own soul. Telling the truth as it changes. 

For it’s always changing, adjusting, this matter of 
living. A series of expanding relationships, some¬ 
body said; of conflicting relationships, he would say, 
of opposing duties that grind a man’s soul between. 
First, the right to be an I. The right to keep a light 
burning at that altar where no one else enters. Then 
the Family. That can be as rotten selfish as the I if 
one doesn’t think straight and clear about it. A nest, 
it is; it wasn’t meant to be a cage. The world’s now 
in the Family stage, talking about how holy it is, and 
forgetting how many it shuts out of holiness; peering 
over the edge of the nest once in a while, the world 
is, at the larger groups growing. 

Beginning to understand, the world is, that the 
family must serve the larger groups; like the unselfish 
outpouring one sees in wartime, when a nation is in 
danger. And a nation is always in danger. Those 
socialist fellows see it. They try to point out our 
hypocrisies to us, and we call them names. They tell 
us the truth about things, and we cross ourselves as 
though the devil had stepped on our altars. 

“We make too much of it, the nest,” they say, “or 
too little of it. We get too snug and selfish in it,” 
or too warped and soured in it! We stand too close 
to it. Stand too close to a man’s hat, and it shuts 
out the entire procession. 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


354 

He could see Jepson, that minute, Jepson sitting in 
his booklined office, Jepson playing with the string of 
his monocle. “Get too close to the flag, and you can’t 
see the rest of the map.” 

He’s right, too. As the I can be a prison, so can the 
Family, and so, unless it’s used right, so can nation¬ 
ality. These the steps by which races climb. Jepson 
thinks we are getting ready for the next step, inter¬ 
nationality. 

We’re still in the Family stage, nursing our white 
livers! 

• •••••• 

Soon the night would be passing, the deck would be 
Ailing up with clattering voices, the strange vigil over. 
His companions would look at him, and think they 
saw the same Wade Graeme. Was Abraham the 
same after he had talked with the angels, or Samuel 
after he had talked with God? Himself never the 
same again, after looking life and death square in the 
face, measuring life by death and eternity. 

Perhaps many men have solemn moments like that, 
when they stand stripped of the bitter and the sweet, 
a naked soul, staring death, and life, in the eye. 
That old college play of the summons when one by 
one the man’s desires were dropped, and at the last, 
his lute! Every soldier in battle has it, every woman 
who meets her hour of travail, all who in strength face 
death must have that rummy, silent moment when 
there is no relationship to anything a man can feel or 

see or hear. Alone, calling out to God, somewhere— 
• • • • • • • 

One’s ship ploughing on in the darkness, the mist in 


THROUGH THE FOG 


355 


one’s face. Alone; the way one came; the way one 
goes out. A blur of light telling one that the moon is 
shining somewhere, a gleam from the bridge where the 
captain is watching— 

How can one be sure that the captain is watching, 
that he hasn’t fallen asleep up there? That the ship 
isn’t blindly plunging through the fog? 

That’s the other relation. Belief in a meaning, in 
a conscious purpose, in a captain who is pushing the 
ship through the fog. 

And dawn breaking— 


CHAPTER XXXV 


CATTLE 

T HE Serbian called his attention to the precau¬ 
tions which were being taken with the steer¬ 
age passengers. They were being carefully 
watched and segregated. He wondered if this were 
the usual procedure with immigrant ships nearing port. 
A rumour started somewhere that there was serious ill¬ 
ness aboard. He remembered the sinister burden 
jettisoned by the sailors the night the two ships had 
struck. He spoke to the Serbian about it. 

The ship officers were unwilling to talk, but precau¬ 
tions were continued to be taken. The rumours grew. 
Every group was whispering of the suspected sickness, 
and fearing Ellis Island. 

It was a shock to Graeme to learn that they were 
doubtless to be held in quarantine. Isabel needing 
him, and himself fuming at Ellis Island! 

He had exhausted his human quarry. The immi¬ 
grants were buzzing about their disappointments, of 
the friends who were waiting for them; they were no 
longer interesting, and the Serbian himself was morose. 
He no longer wanted to talk of the political hopes of 
his people, nor of the Archduke, of the Saravejo affair. 
Graeme got out his books, and tried to write. 

It seemed endless the waiting for the verdict—in 
sight of land, and not able to know how it was with 

356 


CATTLE 


357 


her. She had three weeks yet to go,—he had allowed 
himself that much margin, still things might go 
wrong— His impatience accused the officials because 
the steerage people were kept so long in suspense. 
On the upper deck, careless faced people were playing 
games and dancing—no suspense there, it was easy to 
see. They had been told whether they were to be 
allowed to land, or not. People down here are sup¬ 
posed not to care; makes no difference to cattle 
whether they are landed two weeks late or not. 

Striding up and down the deck, striding to keep from 
jumping overboard. Children under his feet, anxious, 
shawled women getting in his path, trying to make him 
understand their questions. Then hanging over the 
shipside, watching the forest of buildings. Some¬ 
where behind that jagged skyline, his Isabel was watch¬ 
ing for him. 

It was going to be Ellis Island. 

And Isabel waiting! 

Tramping the deck, interminably tramping. Hard 
to keep from stepping on the miserable little steerage 
brats. Hard to keep from thinking of the things that 
could happen— 

He saw the excitement on the upper decks when the 
first mail was distributed. They had their mail first, 
because they were on the upper decks, because they had 
enough money to be on the upper decks. By his side, 
was the Slavic woman, in a torment of despair for one 
letter, and nobody paying the least attention to her 
distress. She wasn’t supposed to have the same feel¬ 
ings. It isn’t so important for a mother with six chil¬ 
dren to know if any one in the new country is going to 



THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


358 

meet her, see that she is not stranded, as it is for 
oriented Americans to know the latest figures of steel 
and oil and cotton— 

He watched the little woman telling her story to 
every one who would listen to her gibberish. The 
child wailing by his side, the one his boot had missed 
by an inch, was her child. Poor little superfluous! 
Not its fault that one shrinks from its aged face! He 
went back and picked it up in his arms and w T ent on 
pacing the deck, thinking of little Alma, and of Isabel, 
of Blood’s child. 

He saw a crowd collecting in one corner of the deck, 
and a line forming. Letters? The child was de¬ 
posited in a corner, where it resumed its wailing. 
Graeme fell into line. 

After a long wait, he saw the Slavic woman return¬ 
ing with empty hands. Tears were coursing down 
her lined face. Then he saw the Serbian, whose hands 
were full of letters. 

He braced himself to be told that there was nothing 
for a man named Wade Fackenthal. Two envelopes 
were handed him, a letter, and a telegram, both from 
New York. 

The yellow envelope made his heart leap. The 
letter bore a strange handwriting. If she were not 
ill, if she were well enough to write, there would have 
been a letter in her own dear writing. He hunted a 
corner to read his messages; his pile of ropes was 
deserted. He sank down, staring miserably at the 
envelopes—slowly tearing them open. 

The telegram said: “Mrs. Sorbier at the River 


CATTLE 


359 

Hospital. Is improving. Received your cable, stat¬ 
ing arrival. See letter/’ Signed “Mary Paul.” 

The dictated letter read: “Dearest Wade. They 
say I am going to get well. For awhile it seemed as 
though I might not be here to welcome you. So don’t 
be shocked when you see me. I understand about the 
name, if you think that's best. Make haste, and don’t 
worry. Isabel.” 

Just like her, that letter. Tells him the truth about 
herself, so that he won’t be shocked at her appearance, 
and adds: Don't worry! 

Later, he remembered that neither the letter nor 
telegram had mentioned the child. He reread them, 
searching for a significance he might have missed. 

That again, was like Isabel. She could not send 
him a mocking assurance that the child was flourishing. 
Not for him the sort of message happier-starred men 
receive: “Mother and child are both doing well." 
The sort of men who do not blunder their lives away— 

He despatched a telegram at once, telling her that 
he was again outside her door, but it wasn’t on the 
latch, the New York door wasn't. He told her that 
they were being held at Ellis Island on suspicion, that 
as far as he could find out, nobody now was ill. He did 
not tell her of the one that had been dumped over¬ 
board. “Suspicion" was enough; it told the story. 

Here they were, a ship load of men and women fret¬ 
ting because they were not allowed to land at once, 
thinking it terribly inconsiderate of regulations, or of 
the wretch who would die and hold them up like this. 
And that wretch dropped back there, never going to 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


360 

get to New York, to his plans, to his friends. Some 
one waiting for him, too, some Isabel. Selfish brutes 
crowds make us into! 

Isabel was getting well. What did anything else 
matter, if Isabel were getting well? 

He could not write. His books could not hold his 
attention. He began to teach the little Slavic woman 
a few English words; the lessons grew to absorb the 
greater part of the day. It was the only thing he 
could do for her, except to give her his address, care 
of Isabel’s lodgings, and tell her to look him up if she 
did not find her husband. 

The meal time grew to be a lesson. Soon she was 
able to say that she wanted “bread,” “fresh bread,” so 
that one could understand her; and then “milk” and 
“meat,” pointing them out as she lisped the words; 
and then “fork and knife,” and then: “I am alone, I 
am looking for my husband; or “I need a doctor.” He 
had taught her to say tram when he remembered, and 
had to give that lesson over again. He was beginning 
to teach her to say: “Where is the apothecary shop ?” 
when he remembered a letter from Isabel: “They say 
‘drug-store’ in New York, Wade!” and taught her 
good American. 

It was slow, tedious work, helping the Slav to arm 
herself against the dangers of a strange city. But it 
killed time for him. When the fourteen days were 
over, he rejoiced that he had not known how long it was 
going to be. 

Even when they were slowly steaming into port, 
patience, he knew was yet needed. Customs officers 


CATTLE 361 

were yet to be met and appeased; the immigrants had 
to be examined— 

He watched the upper deck people landing as he 
stood by the side of the Slavic woman, waiting. 

Isabel in a little white bed, waiting, her eyes on the 
door! 

At last, they were going to let the cattle land! 

He was entering New York, the land of equality. 
As cattle. He wanted to laugh aloud. It was so 
absurd that any one pretended to believe the fiction 
that there is equality anywhere— 

Not even equal chances. More chances, that is all. 

He told the customs official that he would leave his 
boxes there, and come back and declare later. It was 
important that he go at once. 

He was in a rage because they told him he had to 
declare before he left. They couldn’t wait two hours 
for him, when they had kept him fourteen days? 

Her eyes on the door, waiting, while he stands in 
a line to show his miserable boxes! 

Two dollars—how many shillings? Why, he’d 
give a hundred shillings to get out of here! 

“Sorry, you didn’t tell me that before, sir. I might 
have accommodated you!” twinkled the braided 
official. 

Graeme stared. He had said “sir,” to one from 
the steerage. His anger fell from him. One can be 
a gentleman, and travel steerage? 

“Thank you r sir!” he threw back at the examiner, 
and then ran towards freedom. At last—Isabel! 


CHAPTER XXXVI 


THE NEW WORLD 

G RAEME planned to leave the finding of 
quarters until after seeing Isabel. He had 
his boxes thrown in the taxi, and in front 
with the chauffeur who told him that it was a long 
“ways” to the River Hospital. 

He paid with demur his astonishing bill, and was 
turning towards the hospital steps when the chauffeur 
reminded him of his luggage. 

Graeme eyed him aghast. He had forgotten his 
baggage. He wanted to drop it in the street. It 
had wasted too much time already. Take it into the 
hospital with him? He caught the grin on the fel¬ 
low’s face: a maternity hospital. Make the man 
wait, and that ghastly meter ticking its head off? 

“I say, I was a duffer,” he began, thinking aloud. 
“Going to be here long?” inquired the chauffeur, 
still smiling. 

“With that clock ticking away my entire fortune? 
Isn’t there a hotel near by? Any kind of a house?” 

“Right across the street, on the corner. A first- 
class place.” 

“That, then,” he said, climbing into the taxi. 

When they drew up in front of the hotel, some 
thirty seconds later, Graeme asked, as he paid the 

toll, if he would take the boxes into the hotel? 

362 


THE NEW WORLD 363 

“Not farther than the sidewalk; there’s a union 
rule.” 

It was fully ten minutes before Graeme was again 
on his way to the hospital, possessor of a room in the 
new country. 

As he walked up the stone steps of the hospital, his 
limbs were trembling. His teeth were pressing 
against his lower lip. He told himself that the voice 
was rotten which asked for Mrs. Isabel Sorbier. 

The superior young woman in the office displayed 
pride in her ignorance of Mrs. Sorbier. What floor 
was she on? 

Graeme murmured that that was what he wanted her 
to tell him. The marcelled head turned towards the 
telephone. She directed him, without turning again 
in his direction: “Take the elevator. She’s on the 
fifth floor. Inquire at the office.” 

At the fifth floor, he was disgorged, but there was 
no one in sight to show him the room he sought. He 
stood waiting, feeling curiously helpless. A few min¬ 
utes later he saw a blue-gowned, white-capped girl 
some distance down the hall, bearing fresh linen in her 
hands. He ran after her, as she disappeared down 
a side hall. “Can you tell me where the office is?” 

She herself was on her way there. But who did he 
want to see? Mrs. Sorbier? Dr. Wood’s patient. 
“His name is on the door. This corridor, at the end.” 

He noticed that she looked curiously after him as 
he went into the office. Seemed surprised that he 
wanted to see Mrs. Sorbier. He was Isabel’s first 
visitor, probably. Poor, lonely little Isabel! 

He was told that he could see Mrs. Sorbier, for a 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


3^4 

few minutes, they added, at the office. She was still 
very ill; he would not let her talk? 

He was shaking like an aspen by this time. He was 
glad to have the friendly nurse lead him—he was try¬ 
ing to pull himself together. The nurse pushed the 
door open, and following her, Wade saw her eyes, 
watching, waiting! 

Not even her warning, or the words of the nurses in 
the office had prepared him for this. Can any one 
looking like that ever creep back to life? Nothing 
left of his Isabel but her eves ! 

“Wade!” she whispered. “Wade!” 

He was afraid to touch her. The hand resting on 
the bed looked like a claw. He patted it carefully, 
kissing her lightly on her soft hair. 

“Wade!" whispered Isabel again. “Wade!” 

The nurse entered: to see that he did not excite her 
patient? Was she as low as that? Not dying? She 
wasn't dying? He looked at the nurse. 

A calm, capable young woman answered him. "Get¬ 
ting better, slowly. Mr. Fackenthal. I sent you the 
messages. I hope you have not been worrying?” 
She was holding her patient's wrist. 

"You must remember your promise, Mrs. Sorbier. 
If you can't do better than this, I shall have to send 
Mr. Fackenthal awav." 

j 

"Should I go?" demanded Graeme. 

“A few minutes longer. It will be better, if you 
can arrange it, to give her several short visits a day, 
until she is stronger, staying just a few minutes at a 
time? Everything now exhausts her. I shall come 
back in two minutes, Mrs. Sorbier! Will you ring if 


THE NEW WORLD 365 

you want me ? ’ Eler question was directed at Graeme. 

Y\ hen the door shut behind her, Wade leaned over 
the pillow. ‘‘Darling!” he whispered. “My darling! 
Can’t you smile at me?” 

But he could not summon the old glad light to her 
eyes. She was coming back to him very slowly, but 
coming back, thank God ! 

“Sit down," she bade him. 

He tried to make the glance casual w r hich he sent 
around the room when he secured his chair. He was 
remembering the child. He promised himself to ask 
the nurse at the office about the baby— 

Miss Paul was back, almost immediately it seemed 
to him, with a foamy drink for her patient. She be¬ 
stirred herself over Isabel whose eyes had closed. 
Graeme thought she had fallen asleep. 

He was alarmed because the nurse could not arouse 
her. 

“Is she often like this? Has my visit been too 
much for her?” 

“She’s been under a strain, waiting for you. She’s 
had a hard time pulling through, Mr.—Fackenthal.” 

After he left the hospital, her hesitation recurred 
to him. His cable to Isabel had told more than one 
person that he was not going to use his own name in 
the new country. But he did not think of it then. 
He wanted to be sure that she knew where he was 
staying, where a message could summon him. At the 
Pilgrim's Hotel, across the street? Was there noth¬ 
ing he could get for her? 

“Strength!'’ shrugged the nurse. 

When he was descending the outer steps of the hos- 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


3 66 

pital, he remembered his intention to ask after the 
child. He would ask at the office when he returned, 
he resolved. Or if Isabel were asleep, he would ask 
Miss Paul. 

On the street, boys were selling extras. One would 
think the whole world were ablaze, the way they 
screamed, the New York newsies! He beckoned one 
of them, buying his first American paper, while cross¬ 
ing the street to the Pilgrim’s Hotel. Duffer, not to 
have asked for one on the steamer. Doubtless all the 
upper deck people had been reading their papers for 
two weeks. Down there with those foreigners, he had 
taken on their habits. 

Screaming headlines told him, as he walked into the 
lobby of the hotel, glancing at first carelessly at the 
sheet, that Austria had delivered her ultimatum to 
Serbia. 

“Ultimatum? What for?” he wondered. And 
then he recalled the death of the Archduke Ferdi¬ 
nand. Anything to do with that? Surely, they were 
not still talking about that? All the time he was on 
the ocean, and marooned on Ellis Island, they were 
raging away over that? There wouldn’t be any real 
trouble. One of them would back down. That had 
happened twice the past five years, nations getting to 
the edge of war, and backing down. Nations today 
don’t want—their people don’t want war. 

Still, there were Germany’s war-lords—waiting, 
and ready with their blood-hounds. 

The Balkans, a brush heap as the Serbian had said, 
which a match could set aflame. 

It wasn’t going to happen. The other nations 


THE NEW WORLD 367 

wouldn’t let it happen. They would step in and inter¬ 
fere. 

Nothing so bad as the fear which had chilled him an 
instant back, the fear of a general war. But how 
under heaven could that be prevented, if Austria and 
Serbia fall to blows? Russia could not let Serbia, 
plucky little Serbia, just daring to dream of freedom, 
be wiped off the map. If Russia should come in, that 
would drag in Germany, at once would drag in Ger¬ 
many. Why, Austria’s ultimatum meant Germany! 
Would Germany let the dreadful sleeping giant 
attain his full strength, at her own back door? And 
that would drag in France. France was always sleep¬ 
ing with one eye open, anyway, having to watch her 
uncomfortable neighbour who insists upon carrying a 
loaded gun. If Germany comes in, it would mean 
England, too. 

England! 

Why, it would be the war Europe has been prattling 
about over her teacups for so long. Armageddon. 
If Austria really declares war. Over an archduke! 
The match for the brush heap! 

He must look up the back papers, at once; must see 
the English papers, and find out what England is say¬ 
ing; what led up to this. He wanted to read the 
Globe. 

At the hotel desk, a little nervous Frenchman was 
standing, talking, gesticulating while the clerk was get¬ 
ting his mail from his pigeonhole. The head clerk 
listened to him politely before turning to ask Graeme 
what he wanted. 

The Frenchman was interested by the request for 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


368 

the back papers. He had a file of them, he volun¬ 
teered, upstairs, in his room. If the stranger wished 
to see them, if he would save them, he was most wel¬ 
come. The gentleman’s number was—585? Good. 
He would see that he got them at once. Of course, 
he wanted to read about the Serbian complication? 

“It’s too absurd,” repeated Graeme, as though to 
reassure himself. But it did not reassure him. He 
thought of England, playing golf— And of Ger¬ 
many, with her hordes of trained soldiers— 

They lingered in the lobby for a few minutes, talk¬ 
ing about Austria. It was a relief to have some one 
to talk with, some one who was also apprehensive. 
Graeme asked the Frenchman if he did not think it a 
bluff with Austria? Hers was a large army, but un¬ 
seasoned, and look at Serbia’s war-toughened men! 

“But you have to remember,” urged the Frenchman, 
uneasily, “that Austria knows she must do some¬ 
thing to keep the nation from falling to pieces. She 
is all ready to fall to pieces. War, with Germany to 
back her, must seem safer than that.” 

“You believe there’s going to be war!” exclaimed 
Graeme. 

“I think it’s been settled a long time, all but the ex¬ 
cuse, the reason,” frowned the little Frenchman. 
“And between Austria and Germany all arranged for 
the last few weeks. Now, we are being let into le 
grand secret. England is supposed to be what you 
call preoccupied?” 

“If Serbia stands out,” began Graeme, and broke 
off. It couldn’t happen. Unthinkable, a flareup like 
that. Modern, conservative Europe blazing! He 


THE NEW WORLD 


369 


tried to visualize stately, frockcoated London in a war- 
panic, scuttling to safety, but it was unthinkable. It 
couldn’t happen; they’d find a way out. 

Not that he was one of those optimists, he explained 
to the troubled Frenchman, who believe that the day 
of war is over. He couldn’t think that, with battle¬ 
ships and Zeppelins swelling the taxes. Not until na¬ 
tions stop preparing for war will war be impossible. 
And his nation, France, would have trouble with the 
backward nations—all that was on the cards, but a 
general war, dreadnaughts encircling England, Zep¬ 
pelins flying over London and Paris, could you pic¬ 
ture it? Interfering with serene living, with dinners 
at clubs, and pompous presentations! Oh, they’d And 
a way out. 

He went on to his room, in a fever to get the back 
papers, to glance over them before having lunch, when 
he would again see Isabel. 

It was an unreal day, that first one in New York. 
With Isabel; reading the war-threats; talking with 
the little Frenchman, reading through the month file 
sent to his rooms; and seeing Isabel again. Then 
walking around the neighbourhood to get an impres¬ 
sion of New York people, and back again to the hos¬ 
pital. After that, riding down the Avenue on the top 
deck of a ’bus, thinking of London as he rode, compar¬ 
ing this ribbon of a city with London’s great encroach¬ 
ing map. On to Isabel’s hospital again, and that time 
getting a wan smile from her, and then back to the 
Pilgrim’s Hotel where he met the little Frenchman by 
appointment made earlier in the day. They dined to¬ 
gether, talking about Europe, and the Ultimatum. 


37 ° 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


Miss Paul had said: What ultimatum? when he 
had asked her what she thought about it, and the office 
clerks were indifferent. They didn’t seem to know 
what a jolly row it would be if it were not stopped 
before it began. 

Le Page, the Frenchman, knew. That was what 
made his companionship sympathetic. Small wonder 
a Frenchman was nervous. “Nasty,” he confided, “to 
have that sort of a neighbour, always drilling, getting 
ready to fight, when all that the French people wanted 
was a chance to live, and to have the grass grow above 
their beloved graves. France wasn’t rested yet. She 
wanted the chance to rest, and to forget. She wasn’t 
allowed to do either.” 

Like a roystering soldier. Germany staying up all 
the night, her heels on the table, clinking steins and 
swords, and shouting drinking songs when every one 
else wanted to be quiet! 

“She doesn’t want you. She wants to get at us,” 
Graeme said towards the end of the evening, when the 
little Frenchman’s gloom had encompassed him, too. 

“She’ll get at you over us!” retorted the French¬ 
man. 

Then another trip across the street, finding Isabel 
in a deep sleep. When he got back to his room, 
Graeme was abashed to remember that he had not 
asked about the child. 


CHAPTER XXXVII 


GOING ON 

I HAVE to tell you about it, Wade.” 

She wanted to tell him about the child; Blood’s 
child. Several times she had started to tell 
him, but she had been too weak. Each time, she had 
fallen into piteous weeping. 

“Tomorrow, Isabel.” 

“I want to get it over, tonight, Wade.” 

“Do you think you are strong enough, darling?” 

“I won’t get strong or better, until I do!” 

The regular nurse, Miss Paul, had the afternoon off. 
She came in, bearing an egg-nog for Isabel. She found 
numerous things to do in the room that Graeme’s ob¬ 
servation had found immaculate. She straightened 
towels, and adjusted shades, smoothing the bedcovers, 
and giving fresh water to the flowers. Graeme could 
see Isabel’s eyes following her restlessly. 

“Will you ring for the hall-nurse, if you need any¬ 
thing,” Miss Paul asked him. “Promise me you will 
be quiet, Mrs. Sorbier? You know what the doctor 
said, how much depends on your keeping quiet awhile 
longer.” 

At last, she went out, leaving the door ajar. 

“Won’t you please close it, Wade?” 

Coming back to the bed, he said: “I’m going to 
read to you, dear. Afterwards you can tell me about 


371 


372 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


But she did not want to be read to! He couldn’t 
divert her like that. 

“Nice, slippery poetry, Isabel?” 

She shook her head weakly. 

“The newspapers? It looks as though there would 
be war over yonder, Isabel. Let me read the des¬ 
patches from London—” 

London, Europe appeared to hold no interest for 
her. Her eyes closed, and he thought he had had his 
way. She was far too weak yet to talk of painful 
things. It hurt him to see his vivid, radiant Isabel 
brought to this. Creeping back to life, very slowly 
creeping back to life. 

Lie wondered, watching her, if her detachment from 
the life she had left was the result of her weakness, 
or had she been able, during those lonely, sad months 
to establish a relationship with this new, young 
country? Or had she no interest in anything outside 
her four white walls? 

He had gone around New York somewhat. He 
had seen Fifth Avenue, Riverside Drive, the Bronx, 
the Ghetto, Hell’s Kitchen. He had decided that it 
was a city one could not get close to in a hurry. Lon¬ 
don, he told himself, was reserved, but he meant some¬ 
thing more than that. London’s history is obvious; 
one gets close to her history, and to her personality, 
just passing through the city streets. Street had 
spoken of the way a stranger realizes London. One 
gets close to London, not to her people. One gets 
close to nothing in New York, unless one’s taken in, 
said Street! One could not drop out of sight in New 


GOING ON 


373 

York as one does in London. A man would have to 
stand on the street, and howl, or wear a bathing suit 
down Broadway to get noticed. 

Isabel’s voice whispered that she wanted him to sit 
very close to her. And would he be very patient? If 
she stopped like that, every few minutes to rest? 

And he thought her sleeping! The poor, tired Is¬ 
abel ! 

“We have all the time there is, darling! Eternity, 
it’s ours,” he told her. 

He wished again that she would not try to talk 
about it. There was plenty of time to talk about it— 
about the child that was going to make life so hard for 
them both. She wasn’t fit for it! See those two 
bright spots of colour on her cheeks! 

“I was—terribly ill, long before it came. I—didn’t 
want you to know. I didn’t want to live—it seemed 
easier to go then. His child, wouldn’t his child pull 
me back to him? Oh, Wade, what would it seem to 
be? What would it believe it was?” 

All that mattered was that she was getting better. 
His brave Isabel! He knew what she had been 
through! 

“They say—I talked; all the time—when I was out 
of my head. Of wanting to keep it from living; of 
wanting to strangle it! They watched me all the time, 
some one was always with me. I didn’t want it to live. 
How could I want his child to live?” 

The tears falling over his cheeks, too, like children, 
crying together. Not ashamed of the tears that were 
falling because of her suffering— 


374 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


“But God didn’t let me. I didn’t know—I never 
even saw it, Wade. Was it wicked that I was glad? 
That I didn’t want it to live?” 

He could not speak. He was taking it slowly. 
The thing he had been dreading, nerving himself for, 
was not to be required of him. He wasn’t to be re¬ 
quired to seem to be the father of another man’s child, 
another man’s piteous child. There was no child. He 
could not check the shuddering which gripped him— 

Suddenly, he realized that the hand he was holding 
was like a burning claw. He was terrified to feel the 
fire in her face— 

The hall nurse answered his ring, and sent him away 
without ceremony. Why hadn’t he rung for her be¬ 
fore? How long had Mrs. Sorbier been running a 
temperature like this? He met the house doctor in 
the hall. 

It was the first time he had passed the fifth floor 
office without concern. He did not have to torment 
himself into asking to see the child. There was no 
piteous unwanted life. 

The new form of tragedy—born within wedlock but 
without love. Not recognized yet as a sin against 
childhood, robbing it of that priceless heritage. But 
it’s getting to be recognized. That was what had 
brought such suffering to his Isabel, suffering all alone, 
in a strange land. 

Outside somewhere, a barrel organ was playing. 
He could hear it, a thread of sound, as he walked 
down the steps, forgetting until he reached the ground 
floor that there was a lift. As he opened the door, 
there was a burst of wild music. One of those orches- 


GOING ON 


375 


tral things, on the next square. With a swift sicken¬ 
ing rush, it brought back Bird Place, the tune the fel¬ 
low was grinding out. He saw his room, Alma’s. 
With Isabel a few feet away in another man’s keeping. 
He could smell London, the fog,—he could see himself 
going into the wrong house, dazzled by her roses, the 
firelight glow, her soft beauty. Old songs, old famil¬ 
iar tunes the fellow was playing— 

“The music’s not immortal but the world has made 
it sweet, and enriched it with the sunset’s glow.” 

They were going to live it, the poetry, and the mu¬ 
sic, Isabel, himself. They were going on, someway 
bravely—sometime bravely. With Isabel he would 
find the way, how they could go on, and up, together! 


CHAPTER XXXVIII 


A PLEDGE 

H E was sitting between open door and open win¬ 
dow, weeks later, to intercept the draft from 
the electric fans whirring in the tiled halls of 
the hospital. He could see the river reflecting the 
heat. It looked like boiling oil. Upon his ear fell 
the rumble of the ’busses passing up and down the ave¬ 
nue. It made one drowsy, listening to the endless pa¬ 
rade of ’busses. No wonder that Isabel now slept the 
hours away. 

Down yonder, the lucky people were riding in auto¬ 
mobiles, the others in ’busses, both hunting a fictitious 
draft. The altogether luckless ones were hanging out 
of their tenement windows with the bedding and the 
drying wash. From the Elevated he had seen them, 
hanging out of the windows, the unkempt, dishevelled 
women who were trying to breathe, finding comfort 
by complaining of their discomfort to their neighbours, 
themselves hanging out of their windows with the bed¬ 
ding and the drying wash. He had seen the children 
huddling on the red hot pavements, lying across the 
steps; superfluous children, some of them, with hang¬ 
ing jaws, and dull, vacant eyes; and the undernour¬ 
ished kind. 

If not suffering, one could enjoy the peace of this 

place, with its drawn shades, and whirring electric fans. 

376 




A PLEDGE 


377 


It’s the business of such an establishment, creating 
comfort and consolations for the poor bodies who are 
carried here. 

He heard the sound of ice clinking in pitchers which 
were being carried through the halls by the soft-footed 
nurses. Capable, reserved women, all of those he had 
seen. They have to be. They don’t prattle, these 
women don’t. They know silence is important, every 
case hiding its sad or happy secret. An air of dig¬ 
nity their responsibility gives them. One can see ex¬ 
perience in their faces. It would be interesting to find 
out what they make of it all; not judgment, he felt 
sure, but understanding. For every day they see con¬ 
sequences meted out. The consequences of sin is 
death,—but what is sin? Anything that swings off 
the hinges of custom. 

The papers that morning were screaming about the 
bodies of a man and a woman found in the park, not 
ten squares from Isabel’s hospital. There were letters 
found telling of a suicide pact. They couldn’t live and 
obey the rules custom told them to follow, so they went 
on somewhere else. Suttee again! They might have 
run away somewhere, they might have found a coun¬ 
try or a town where divorce laws would meet their pre¬ 
dicament. They could have given up their families, 
and the liking of their friends, could have hidden un¬ 
der a lying name,—he wondered what it was that 
hindered them, was it the belief that their love was 
sin, or was it Opinion they were afraid of, or of a life¬ 
time of lying? 

He had asked those questions of their calm, white 
faces an hour or so ago, as they lay in the morgue 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


378 

waiting for their friends to discover them. He 
wanted to see what they would look like, a man and 
woman who would choose that way of answering law. 
Death was perhaps lending them a majesty that had 
not been theirs in life. Perhaps one of them was a 
coward— 

Didn’t those magnificent creatures know that the 
world might be needing them soon, needing him right 
now, a straight-chested fellow like that who was not 
afraid of death! Didn’t they know there was a 
harder martyrdom waiting for them if it were courage 
they were wanting to prove? Or thinking only of 
their own little personal lives? Didn’t they guess 
that it can’t be a sin before the eternal if one is 
exonerated in Nevada for what one would be jailed 
for in London? Could it be that their pitiful little 
obscure death hoped for one instant’s heeding of an 
unsystematic world? A world that punishes its vic¬ 
tims for its own lack of system! With not more 
than a dozen stupid faces staring that morning at the 
slabs on which they lay; with the newspapers giving 
them a column that evening, the “lead” not why they 
died, but how—even New York had shuddered—and 
tomorrow the world will not know that greater love 
hath no man than this! 

In the cool, tiled corridors, ice was clinking in the 
plated pitchers; everybody praying for ice this hot 
August afternoon. Those poor fellows over yonder, 
the ones who are making barriers of their bodies, 
would welcome ice pitchers about now! Dying like 
moths over there, and he, an Englishman, hiding in 
New York— 


A PLEDGE 


379 


Just as though you were walking across a road, 
and a stick you didn’t see in time hits you between 
the eyes! For awhile, you don't think clearly. You 
know it was a nasty hurt, and that’s all, for a bit. 
Being an Englishman, it hurts— 

Stung yesterday, too, in Street’s office. Street had 
been speaking of his own country. Her business it was, 
he said, to be the world’s safety zone. America 
was to point the Purpose, as yet inchoate, of the war. 
Her destiny he maintained it was to prove that civi¬ 
lization could not allow two codes, one for the nations, 
another for the individuals which make up the nations. 

Maybe so, he had agreed. It was a big plan. But 
he was an Englishman, and Englishmen have no 
choice, have they? They've got to make barriers of 
their bodies, without bothering about the purpose. 
And Street had flung it at him: “When are you go¬ 
ing back?” 

Why was it that he was always feeling shackled? 
Was it some weakness in himself? Branded a coward 
as well as a liar by Street. Anger had made him 
tell Street that it was to be trail-blazing for himself 
and Isabel; there was to be no hiding behind bor¬ 
rowed names, no life of lying, once she was well. 

Street had taken it coolly. “Be successful, then it 
won’t matter what you once did. If you can’t re¬ 
spect the way the world wants you to live, make it 
respect the way you live it.” 

Fackenthal had said the opposite: “If you’re 
successful then the story’s bound to be always crop¬ 
ping up against you.” 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


380 

But when are you going back? 

A weak little voice was trying to make itself 
noticed. Isabel’s eyes were watching him soberly. 

“When does the next boat to England leave?” 

“The next—boat?” 

“I’m thinking the same thoughts, Wade!” 

Perhaps she was. She had a trick of thinking the 
same thoughts, at the same time. 

“Will you sit closer so you can hear me? Hold 
my hand, Wade. It came to me this morning. Did 
they tell you I sat up for a few minutes this morning? 
That’s the reason I slept so long this afternoon. I’ve 
lost so much of your precious visit, Wade!” 

Starting to tell her that it wasn’t precious, that all 
the rest of his life was to be with her, but something 
in her eyes, in her mind, making the words sound 
trivial and untrue. Just sitting there holding her 
hand, and watching the sweet frail face, and the eyes 
that looked so large and wistful. 

“Pm not suffering any more. I’ve passed that. I 
am going to sit up again tomorrow, and longer the 
next day. I have a clean bed, comforts, everything 
I want, thanks to you, Wade! And—” 

He waited for her next words, but he knew what 
they were going to be. 

“And over there, in those trenches, just suffering, 
no—” 

“No ice-pitchers!” He wanted to bring a smile 
into the wan eyes. 

“I don’t need—anything. I don’t need—even— 
you, Wade!” 



A PLEDGE 


381 

Turning away from her then, to blink at the river. 
Pretending to be seeing the river, to be listening to 
the rumble of ’busses, but thinking thoughts that felt 
like a prayer, thoughts that were pulling one down 
to one’s knees! 

“The war changed everything for us, dear, didn’t 
it? The day before, we had our right to be happy.” 

“And now?” 

“Just what we can do to help.” 

Wasn’t that—Life? Youth with the right to be 
happy, and age asking: What can I do to help? 

“If I had died, had left you, you would be on your 
way now to England.” 

“Why yes. There isn’t anything to keep me here 
but you. Work here, work there, too. But you are 
living, thank God for that, and you are going to need 
me, Isabel, a while longer—” 

“If I keep you from doing what you would do if 
I were not here, then I’d be standing in your way, 
slavery business, again, Wade!” 

He confessed the truth then to her. He ought to 
be helping England pull herself out of her golfholes. 
He should be helping her brace herself against that 
sea of grey Prussians which had overwhelmed France 
and Belgium. But he couldn’t leave her yet. They 
would talk of it again when she was stronger. 

“I’ve a plan,” she crooned, whispering, for the ef¬ 
fort to talk was taxing her. 

He moved closer, sitting on the edge of the narrow 
white bed. 

“I’m going to stay in this hospital. Or come back 



THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


382 

to it, if I’m long getting strong. But it can’t be long, 
now that I’m starting, Wade! I’ll use your money 
shamelessly, what you can spare. But I won’t need 
much, studying to be a nurse. And when I can go 
home, I can help England, too, or France. Wouldn’t 
it be queer, if we met there, in Paris, after all!” 

That idea had never occurred to him. Isabel nurs¬ 
ing. Isabel in a nurse’s cap and uniform, looking 
like an angel of mercy. 

She closed her eyes, and he thought she had fallen 
asleep again. He sat, holding her hand, and look¬ 
ing down on the sweet face he worshipped. 

Love giving him his freedom. Not claiming him, 
—no bondage. Giving him freedom because it is 
love. Because she wants him to stand straight, be 
the man he wants to be, the man she loved, to be true 
to himself, first. 

Chaotic, unrelated thoughts came rushing in upon 
his mind as he sat there, looking at her through a 
mist. Isabel nursing; Isabel at Wade House; Isabel 
and Fackenthal watching the early crocuses together; 
Isabel coming in to meet him through the long glass 
doors from the lawn, into the room where another 
sweet woman used to wait for him— 

Telling him about the flowers she had planted since 
he had been there, the books she had read, and how 
she had been changing his room, the room he used 
to have as a boy, where he used to dream of life, and 
love, of adventure, of Janice— 

For he wasn’t going to get too snug and selfish in 
a nest. He was going to have a place in London, 



A PLEDGE 


383 

decent, but not too fine for fellows like Korniloff 
and his crowd to enjoy coming there. Since that mo¬ 
ment on the lonely deck, life had had a different 
value. It was as though he had died, and had come 
back to live the margin lent to him. With Isabel 
helping him, he was going to live the rest differently. 

Somewhere he had read that if to a man has come 
the full shock of realization of death,—of life,— 
the rest of his days are set to another key, his body 
the same, but his soul free. Isabel was going to help 
him keep his soul free. 

Going down to spend week-ends, wonderful week¬ 
ends w r ith Isabel at Wade House! Carrying Fack- 
enthal, and once in a while Jepson, and Korniloff and 
his Marie Lezynsky. Sometimes alone, the best 
times alone. And Isabel, coming up to visit him, in 
London, the way Mrs. Street visits Street in New 
York. 

He owed the plan to Street. 

He had been wanting to see the Street home. 
New Jersey, it was, Street had told him, where Mrs. 
Street ran some business in the efficient American 
way. There were two children. He had been shown 
their pictures. 

The day before, in the American’s office, he had 
urged him to dine with him. Street couldn’t accept. 
His wife had invited him to take dinner at the Hol¬ 
land House where she was stopping, and to go to a 
show afterwards. Looked at his watch a dozen times, 
for fear he might be late. They don't let the strange¬ 
ness, the joy, wear off; they guard the charm. 


THE HINGES OF CUSTOM 


384 

“I don’t know where you are now,” a weak voice 
complained. “You’ve run away and left me.” 

“I’m thinking of a poem, a girl and a poem, Isabel.” 

“Which poem?” She was trying to have him be¬ 
lieve she was smiling! 

He buried his face in her soft hair. For he had 
seen tears filling the eyes he loved. If he saw her 
crying, his Isabel crying, he could never leave her. 

Leave her? One doesn’t leave Isabel! Wouldn’t 
she always be with him, wherever he was? Would 
he not always meet her bright spirit, the way they 
belonged to each other, understanding, seeing each 
other, where they always found one another? 

“You haven’t come back yet,” she whispered in his 
ear. 

“I’m coming back,” he answered. “One way or 
another, I will always come back to you.” 

“One way or another,” repeated Isabel, slowly, “I 
will come back to you!” To his ears, it sounded 
like a pledge, a marriage vow, all that life and custom 
would grant them, their scrap of ritual. 

She asked him again when the next boat sailed, and 
he heard her stifle a gasp when he replied: “To¬ 
morrow.” He knew, he explained to her, because 
a friend of his was going, the little Frenchman he 
had told her of. 

“I shall wait until you are about again,” he told 
her. 

“Wade, it will be harder then. It’s going to get 
harder!” 

He leaned over and kissed the thin little fingers. 


A PLEDGE 


335 

“When it’s over, and I come back, Isabel, wherever 
it’s to be, Wade House, England, Paris, or America, 
it won’t be hiding?” 

Oh, no, it wouldn’t be hiding! 

“Nor lying. So tongues will be cruel— You 
will suffer—” 

She shook her head, wanly smiling, the ghost of 
Isabel’s old smile. It would not make her suffer, that 
kind of suffering! 

“For ourselves, we can decide,” he persisted. “But 
not for others. There can never be any children of 
ours, while he lives, children to suffer, to lie to—” 

She knew that, too! Her upward gaze clinging 
to his face told him that they could decide for them¬ 
selves, but not for others. She had known that a 
long, long time! 

“A few real friends, the ones who understand, 
Fackenthal, Jepson, and maybe after awhile others. 
Will it be enough, Isabel?” 

He looked deep into the heart of her truthful eyes 
for his answer. 

“Before the world, dear?” 

And slowly, as though in a church, she answered 
him: 

“Before the world, dear!” 


THE END 








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